The past
is pressed flowers
discovered
between pages
of a long
discarded book.
A flimsy
brittle remnant
forgotten
silent summer.
The past
a friend,
my life,
unfulfilled
desires.
secrets,
dreams.
There are more
than books
or words
in the library.
peter rodenby
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-past-is-pressed-flowers/
