The Pressed Flower
These petals held the blush of summer when
you handed me this gift. It raged with life
still, moments after falling to the knife.
Sweet sap was seeping out. But that was then.
If once a Ghibelline, it’s now a Guelph.
As taut as parchment, brittle, crackle-thin.
The wine-bowl of its bloom has been crushed-in,
prey to unyielding hardbacks on my shelf.
And if I flip the flimsy skeleton,
palpating it between my fingers: let
these petal-remnants quiver on my lip,
I find the thorns no longer hurt. And yet
a rose is still a rose. So, six months on,
I hold it thus... but who is in whose grip?
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