Dried Roses

Yesterday's visions are like dried roses
a duller red, and brittle to the touch.
Faint fragrance clings to parchment petals
dry ghosts of living splendor once beheld.

Kept under glass, or pressed in a book
dried roses last forever, if untouched.
But crush them in your hand, and wine aromas
rise from the crimson dust your hands now hold.

Sharp, these thorns, though the rose is dried.
They still draw blood when hands come to touch.
Sweet, the fragrance, though the rose is dried.
A sweeter vision than my heart can hold.