Suppose that the gown were made of flowers
Grafted with flowers, woven together
Into the skein of a flower, really a blooming symbol
Of bloom. Now suppose you showered it in living,
Wore the petals down, dragged the clustered hem
Through shaggy walk in closets, long, dimmed spaces,
And every night a hundred strange embraces. Gradually the blue,
Embroidered, buried in the dirt, of course comes grey
And black as earth; but the memory of the dress,
-- Is it wilting in the back of your mind, or folded
Into some remembered drawer?
It is probably all a matter of air -- and time.