His frail hands are pale like the full moon
and I can trace the intricate pattern
of deep veins beneath the surface,
like a leaf from one of his old bouquets.
He used to pick wildflowers on long walks,
and point out peculiar insects
that were crawling up his arm,
while I skipped by his side –
searching for animals
with my pockets full of pinecones
and interesting fur.
His bouquets always ended up on the kitchen table,
where they would sit in their little vases
until the flowers slowly wilted
and the delicate leaves,
with all those deep veins,
finally curled
and fell softly to the earth.
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