Unlike their lively counterparts,
they make no pretensions of glory in color,
sweetness in fragrance,
nor luxury in texture.
To them is the rarest and most precious pathos given;
to them does the nature of the heart incline.
They are hidden away like precious treasures:
pressed between devout pages
or secreted behind glass.
They are spared the humiliation
of common display upon chiffoniers and dinettes.
They are spared mutilation
by gamesome schoolgirls
looking for answers to questions of love.
I like dead flowers because they are the chalice of memory.
“Drink from me and be reminded,” they cry.
Cloistered away, they resurrect hope;
we take and retake that which we have already taken.
I like dead flowers better.