What has passed, they say
- It should be regarded with
A glance, then quickly, readily
Shut away, like those dried flowers,
Enfolded between the leaves of a book;
Should be shut away - left on the
Shelf with the rest of those books,
To gather dust.
Then some day, someday someone
Will reach to the shelves, and find
That book, and crack the cover open -
Already stiff with age. The shower
Of dust, sprinkling down, some still
Clinging to the air, refusing to fall
With the rest. And as those old leaves
Are turned - one, two, three...
Gently floating, spinning, dropping to the
Ground. Then he, or she, whomever it may
Be, bend down, picking up those flowers
Delicately; they rest on the hand, are looked
Over, and one wonders, smiling at them,
What they used to be,
And why such beauty, now faded,
Was shut away and forgotten.