All paper
will cast a pale silhouette
of its tree undone.
A closer look
reveals each ring,
those marks of age
and passing-
vague water stains,
ghosts of ripples
splashed
where the texture of words
fell crisp,
each drip against the ocean
of a page.
Some clasp a Rose,
a Dandelion or Violet
pressed between sheets,
flattened fan-like
as a memory of wild
for every book
longs
to roam through
its heartwood.







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