Pressed gently
Between pages
An eye of life
Now closed
The book of
Yellowed ages
Curled vellum
Now patrols.
The flower that
Never seems to die
Decades kissed
Pressed it lies
In slumber which
Takes no steps
Its loving bond
Over years is kept.
Opened only when
The urge returns
The sense of loss
Its pain to burn
Deep and with
A Summers eye
The flower that
Never seems to die.