I went to pick flowers

And gathered a few,

But the closer I got them to home,

The more they shriveled and drew up.

They turned to ashes and dust and fell from my hand,

And now I have nothing to carry across my threshold.

But I am glad this happened, no?

Because now I see, so many things are like that,

Here today and gone tomorrow,

Like joys and sorrows.

But that is why I collect poetry,

For poetry is one of those eternal,

Holy, sacred things

That springs from the human breast

By means of the first, original, primal cause,

And it contains pearls of wisdom 

That may never pass away.

-jenn