Pressed Between Pages
It was pressed between the pages
of an old French novel.
A pale sprig of blossoms, aged and delicate.
I imagine that it was plucked from a field
on a warm summer day with a slight breeze
tugging at the hem of her dress.
It was he who had picked the blossoms and
tucked it inside the novel they had been
reading together over a picnic of
fresh crusty bread, aged cheese
and a bottle of wine taken from
his father’s cellar without permission.
Perhaps the sprig was from
a less romantic occasion,
but I like to imagine that it was
a memory sealed with a kiss.
Textures from
www.flickr.com/photos/paulgrand/2220246777/in/set-7215760...
www.flickr.com/photos/lesbrumes/sets/72157613199718163/
In the spirit of full disclosure, these pressed flowers were not found in an old novel. The French text is from a lovely vintage waxed paper wrapping I found in our French flea market ephemera.
Pressed Between Pages
It was pressed between the pages
of an old French novel.
A pale sprig of blossoms, aged and delicate.
I imagine that it was plucked from a field
on a warm summer day with a slight breeze
tugging at the hem of her dress.
It was he who had picked the blossoms and
tucked it inside the novel they had been
reading together over a picnic of
fresh crusty bread, aged cheese
and a bottle of wine taken from
his father’s cellar without permission.
Perhaps the sprig was from
a less romantic occasion,
but I like to imagine that it was
a memory sealed with a kiss.
Textures from
www.flickr.com/photos/paulgrand/2220246777/in/set-7215760...
www.flickr.com/photos/lesbrumes/sets/72157613199718163/
In the spirit of full disclosure, these pressed flowers were not found in an old novel. The French text is from a lovely vintage waxed paper wrapping I found in our French flea market ephemera.