Primrose Poem by Steve Howard
Primrose
Sweet primrose pressed between the pages.
A book of verse from bygone ages.
A token kept, and treasured then.
But to what purpose, to what
end?
A lovers gift, tucked dear away,
a flower picked one idle day?
Who now can say a time, a place,
what yearning heart, a name, a
face;
a crumbling flower the only
trace?
Perhaps it's only heaven knows,
the lives that once entwined the rose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/1/2025 6:47:57 PM # 1.0.0
