Flowers

I keep some dried flowers in a glass

Cheerful faces of summers past

And it seems as if, hour by hour

The wrinkled faces of the flowers

Across the room the sun they track

Though vitality and life they lack

Is there some phantom that resides

That makes the flowers track the skys?

Or perhaps it is a memory

Of springtime and of plensentry

Before I plucked them one by one

Of when they sat and watched the sun