What a dream I had
pressed in organdy
clothed in crinoline
of smoky burgundy
softer than the rain
--Simon & Garfunkel, For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her*
She turned the blossom in her fingers. The petals, so soft.
She thought about the old child's poem.
Love me not.
But she tucked the flower back on the branch un-plucked. No one could tell it had been picked. At least not until it withered.
She was unsettled by her dreams. The ones that left her soaked in the experience. Dreams are not so different from memories, she thought. Not when you look back on them. Not how you feel when you remember. But she knew that if dreams are one thing more than any other, they are unfair.
The blossom mixed in with the others as she stepped back. Even she didn't know the difference.
They fluttered in the breeze as she left the tree behind.
(*For me, one of the most beautiful songs, ever.)