Stories to tell

I have got her stories pressed like flowers,
On notebook pages to be preserved,
As though the right for you to share them,
Has been as yet undeserved.
I want to know why she has changed,
But one day, we’ll crack the covers,
And I’ll know all the tales of her,

That we have never heard.

And find the past pressed between the pages,
Telling those stories word for word.
It’s a shame that when a lone tree topples over,
We don’t hear its echo sing,
And only when it hits the ground,
We can read its rings.