the art of pressing flowers
is all about preservation
to keep voluptuous blossoms
at their peak, forever

dry them, meticulously
lay them between pages
of old books, press memories
beneath the weight of Tolstoy

leave them, you will soon forget
to return to the obituaries
pages eaten up with mold,
petals that crumble to
the touch

a two dimensional bouquet
mnemophobic
yet you have still preserved
nothing but ash