Pot Pourri

I no longer press flowers between diary pages

Marking important events

To be forgotten for years at end only to fall apart as dust

No, I display dried flowers in vases all around my house

Quite proudly

Wilted and shriveled yet capable of beauty

They no longer need to be locked away

Into secret corners of my memories

And when these flowers start to disintegrate

I turn them into pot pourri instead

Spreading their fragrance anew

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