I lie in my bed

With a flashlight

And read

The leaves, the petals trampled 

By the ancient victors

Whose poetry

Stands the test of time.

I taste the pungency 

Of the laurel.

I smell the rose buds

Bruised by their feet,

As they left their little books behind

And walked through the triumphant arches.

In this state,

I turn off my flashlight.

I hope to dream

Of poetry,

But my fitful sleep produces

Memories of my last meeting with you.

-jenn