Dried petals fall to my lap,
Crumbling like memories from a faded past;
It’s no different from all the others, is it?
After all, there are several such flowers
Pressed between pages of random books–
So, what is the story behind this one?
Perhaps I picked it up on a walk,
One of those summer evenings at the park,
Where the withered flower drifted in the wind
And found its way over to me,
Perching on top of my head–
Unbeknownst to me, like a jewelled comb.
So, of course, I brought it home.
Perhaps it was the one that caught my eye
Out of all the others in the big bouquet,
Too stubborn wither away,
Holding on to dear life,
Still as pretty, still as bright–
Leaving a mark on the yellowing pages
Like the one it left on my heart.
Perhaps it was given to me
By a friend in the midst of a conversation–
A smile so wide on her face,
Holding out her hand as she says,
“For you, I thought you’d like it”,
So, of course, I’ve always kept it
For the power that little things hold.
Perhaps I picked it up on a whim,
Like a child reaching out for a plaything,
Just playing with it absent-mindedly,
Mind wandering about aimlessly,
As though the blossom twirling about,
The one in my hand holds the key–
So I bring it back, keep it with me.
Any book with a flower you find,
You can read two stories–
One that the flower shall tell
And the other that the book shall say.
So don’t mind me,
For here I’ll be,
Poring over these tales, wide-eyed,
Within my bookshelves,
Lost in the pages,
Is a potpourri of memories.
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