But, pressed flowers are still flowers, still as bright red and as hummingbird-shaped in the pages of a book
As they are on the spine of a brick wall,
Coiling around the flattened branches, a family tree two decades old.
Your petals smoothed against pages 89 and 90
You did not need me, did not know me;
The birds did pay me no mind
As I sat in the old and growing garden
‘Neath a tree could bear my weight
On a ground could bear my ignorance.
To be alone in the world. Was not my sorrow
To consecrate the beauty,
And to place it in a poem.
The flowers are still blooming
Soundlessly, wether I’m there or not,
For spring will keep on coming while the earth remaineth.
And long after I am gone from here,
Far onward, and sometime homeward,
Red flowers will still push their heads
From beds and bonnets of green, and will smile at the sun.
Safe and settled; hid away.
Dedicated to my little brother. I love you.