'In my garden there is a large place for sentiment. My garden of flowers is also my garden of thoughts and dreams. The thoughts grow as freely as the flowers, and the dreams are as beautiful.'
The Hydrangea is engulfed
No scent. No beauty remains.
The essence hidden, stored, unable to be seen.
To be smelt
They are locked between two soft squares
Soon to be vitrified between the two
No colour, no Purpose.
Just a feint memory.