Crushed

One small flower, pressed in the pages of a large old book, falls out gently into my lap.

Crushed flat by time and the weight of the pages enfolding her, she’s now merely a remnant of the life and beauty she once held.

Color faded, brittle and crumbling–yet someone once thought enough of her to keep her.

Must have been a beautiful, special flower. Must have been back then.

Now…just forgotten and fragile, easily set aside, longing to once again be treasured.

I’ll keep you, little flower. I understand.

barrelmakersdaughter