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Date Posted: 09:47:04 01/28/02 Mon
Author: Porthos
Subject: Under the Cover

It is still here
It’s been years
And it is still here
Sitting like a splotch
Of spilt Cabernet
A stain rediscovered
As I open the cover
Of my journal.
I gently lift it from the page
For closer examination.
Little folds and creases
Spread outward from
Its base, like ripples
In a frozen pond.
Tiny cracks line
The banks where eager
Travelers ventured onto
Its surface.
There is a light patch
On one edge
Where it clung
To the flower
Like rays exclusively cast
By the half risen sun.
Holding the rigid petal
Stiff and dry
Small particles escape
Its body and rest
On my fingertips.
I touch them to my tongue
And taste dandelion milk
Or more like the faint
Traces of it one can taste
On the air
During summertime.
My nostrils flair
As it’s ever so delicate
Aroma reaches them
And I smell the potpourri
That sat in my grandmother’s basement
For forty years that had all but lost
Its fragrance.
I turn it over in my hands one last time
And it crackles like
Tinder erupting in flame.
I set it down on the page
And close the book.
You know,
I can’t remember
The rose it came from

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