Pressed Petals Poem by Ailbhe Eighteen
Pressed Petals
You aimed at me a bow
Of gold and white
Its value, I do not know
Yet that is a hay of temperate summer
Rocking my closet, disturbed
You gave me a rose
A key to the genesis of possibilities
You gave me a music of the heart
A joy to a man's soul
Thank you anyway!
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8/11/2026 10:00:09 PM # rel_20260811T123139Z_a98d49b
