I will be enchanted by dry remains
Of a flower lying on our window sill
Or withered in the car’s console
Where Diane had left them forgotten,
Lonely decorations once sought to enhance
That everyday that years of marriage fills
With a sameness that subtly builds
A lassitude that’s aimlessly sustained.
I used to ask her why she did not throw
Those blooms away, their scent long lost
And she would simply shrug, knowing
More about enchantment than I who toss
Away these delicate monuments. She has sown
More than fragrance in sprinkling blossoms
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