These crinkled drops

Used to be perfumed roses,

Given to me wrapped in plastic.

Musty water clung to their stems

As I snipped their leaves to perfection.

I closed two from the dozen into a dictionary

Where their refreshing odor was closed away

Until yesterday when I plucked

Ten golden plum petals and put them back

Into plastic where their scent is no more.

Now stale and lifeless

My fresh roses have become

Nothing but dried memories.