Pieces

There are
no Seasons
to hold onto;
ask The Rose.

I can smell the
spicy freshness of Fall,
hovering above my lips…
before kissing the
pink of Summer goodbye.

There is
no cheapness
in the love of Seasons.

We strip down,
when all the petals have blown;
falling into
the rest of our lives.

Ask The Rose
about Winter,
ask the bird that sits
at the side of our grave
eating the seeds of rose hips.

Somehow,
somewhere…
growing again
into the depths
of Spring, into
the Seasons of our lives;
our skin and bones.

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Pink Pressed Flowers

I started to write you a letter,
on lineless paper, containing
pink pressed flowers; you could
almost smell the sweetness.
It’s bound in a book of leather;
so smooth to the touch.

I hope it died humainly.

For now, my skin is soft,
but it changes each day,
like the lines that grow
in story on my face.

(breathe in)
“Dust to dust little girl,”
the preacher said.
(breathe out)
In a dark underground church,
where the dirt was void of water.
(breathe in)
“Come, sit at the piano bench,”
he said.
(breathe out)
No music played,
nor could I hear the birds
singing outside in the sunshine.

But this letter is on lineless paper,
containing pink pressed flowers,
in a leather bound book.
It almost smells sweet…
in the death of memory
through the pages.