I find them still, sometimes.
Looking through her old books,
Pressed flowers, delicate as paper,
That tumble out from between the leaves.
I hold them up to the window;
Light whispers through, highlighting veins
And making the colour glow,
As though they were alive again.
I put them back after that.
Leave them to lie flat and motionless,
Two-dimensional,
Until they tumble out again and fall,
Unexpected, into my hands.
YOU ARE READING
A Song To The Dawn
PoetryJust a few poems. ... Until he stood at its highest peak, Without hesitation he leapt And flew as the sparrow does, Coasting on invisible winds and Delicate wings, in ups and downs, Like waves And the water crashed upon the shore, Pebbles rolling...
