Memory of Flowers
Spring time and twilight, flowers blooming,
shaded in the settling dusk. A dream
land perhaps, built on memories and flowers
and hints of something, nearly forgotten. Slipping
away to the unconscious, the promise
of secrecy, in a city I nearly remember.
Portland, perhaps. Last summer and I remember
a Rose Garden, red and pink petals unfolding as flowers bloom
in the humid air of another coast. And down the block, the promise
of other worlds hidden in a bookstore four stories high, dreams
inked onto pages, words and stories slipping
together. A summer night last year, in a city that smelled of flowers.
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