Like a petal pressed between the pages,
delicate and lightly writ with ink,
you were the past preserved
and never changing,
a quiet fragrance of memory.
Always the same house
on ever the same street
wearing just the same blouses
and firm beliefs,
the new century left you a little confused—
so you didn’t try to keep up with the times,
just kept cutting interesting bits
from old papers
nd smiled softly at the grandkids
you didn’t understand.
Death alone could have made you different.
History has come now to take you home.
Backyard Apricots 