My mind wanders back to childhood when you gave me my first plant,
a hibiscus. I planted it in the sun so it would bloom toward heaven.
Our love is a flower pressed between the pages of yesterday and today
I can feel the nubby weave of fabric used to make my red jumper on your
Singer sewing machine, we picked out the pattern together. I remember the
smell of freshly washed sheets drying in the sun, till the rain came and we
rushed to take them inside. Memories of picking purple azaleas to float in water
You planted tall, yellow foxgloves that bloomed all summer. The sprinkler
squeaked as I danced under it. We sipped iced tea sitting under the live oak
as I heard stories about my grandparents and life growing up on a farm.
Memories of a childhood in full bloom
Years pass; pressed flowers become fragile.
