Flowers from a Book

As I write today
I am reminded of a phrase
"flowers from a book"
which invokes images in my mind,
familiar and unknown,
like one creates a solipsistic ripple
by dropping a pebble into still waters.
As if, someone hurriedly closed a book
and left, with the flower placed tidily
between the pages to leave behind a cue,
to words, life and poetry.

As if your petals had been waiting for me.
And I came across the smoky realms
of a singed heart and too many
broken verses, until I found you.
My poetry of midnight petals.
And moon by moon, fables arose
out of the neighborhood of petals,
like the dense fragrance of magnolias. And rivers bent,
by the waist of the stories it spoke, of things, old and forgotten.

In you I found my own,
my crystal of salt, as pure as nothingness.
And I watched you enter the saline rivers of
my consciousness with your naked feet.
Your hands washed with the smiling waters of my sodden heart.

As I pass by every fable undone,
and you forget me little by little,
not a day closes the passage of nights
that I do not wish,
to have made a small home between
the pages of my life and your small soft hands
with this muted flower from a book.