Press these flowers I picked for you
Between the pages of the book I have yet to write.
Let their bloom perfume pulp fictions
In place of long left rotting though novel ideas,
Buried like bulbs beneath the dead leaf prose of autumn.
Let their petals print an indelible description
Of a femme fatale looking through frosted windows
For a figure planting plots in the grey of winter gardens,
So come spring and the start of new chapters,
The forget-me-nots trapped between pages
Still waiting to be written, now long forgotten,
Will give way to new bouquets from loving hands
Of wildflowers waiting to be found in fields
Along with words from a book of promises for you
Authored over a lifetime of lasting impressions.