A PRESSED ROSEBUD
Cleaning out a dusty shoe-box today,
My hands unearthed a lost notebook
Yellowed with age,
Bent out of shape,
Filled with childish scrawls and ‘art’–
Done lovingly, painstakingly.
Flipping through it I was flushed back
To a more innocent time - a life of alphabets,
Of shaky numbers, of penciled stick
Families, of … a pressed rosebud.
There it lies, flattened paper-thin –
Brush-stroke distinct once-velvet skin.
Impassioned red has faded in death
To remain only a purple sheath;
The withered stalk, now a dismal shade,
No longer infuses life sacred;
A two-dimensional leaf bravely stands,
Brittle as love – put there by tiny hands.
Did it in my own garden grow?
Why do I not remember it now?
When was it put there, and why?
When did my love for it die?
A gift from a school friend -
Or did it a deeper ardor portend?
Botanical fancy, or some sudden whim
Which possessed, then left me, like a dream?
Veiled memories dance around
In swirls of colour and whispers of sound:
Tantalizing and close, yet so far;
Distantly visible like a star;
Still no concrete recall occurs –
It recedes like a school day verse.
Ah! I suppose, after all it is best
To retreat back into my today's self,
To put the box back on the shelf,
To let forgotten rosebuds…simply rest.
Xxxxxx
