Ever remembered having received flowers pressed within the pages of a book you love to read, such as Shakespeare’s Sonnets? 
Well, sweet youth has something for its winter world–the warmth of remembrance, even in the decided funeral of what could have been.
By eaa1118
Three flowers
for you speak no special thing
you said: it’s only once the heart is young
I can’t, as kids, kid an aged passion
having had too much
scalpel or scrutiny
Though love
beyond dissection
for a microscopic meaning
Frustrates the hunt for
scientific order.
Somehow
The story went the easy way:
fresh flowers
faded in a story-book, where fingers
Bloodied with a shaking joy
once pressed them gently there.
Once, I thought, for ever once we could
Break from dream out to the real things.
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