These crinkled drops
Used to be perfumed roses,
Given to me wrapped in plastic.
Musty water clung to their stems
As I snipped their leaves to perfection.
I closed two from the dozen into a dictionary
Where their refreshing odor was closed away
Until yesterday when I plucked
Ten golden plum petals and put them back
Into plastic where their scent is no more.
Now stale and lifeless
My fresh roses have become
Nothing but dried memories.