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
Moonlighting Scrivener 