paper/thin forever/yours

You were talking about pressing leaves the other day
And I thought about that summer
In that field
With those flowers
When he would shoot silhouettes of deers until dusk
And I would kneel low in the grass picking flowers.
I thought about the day that’s going to come
When he opens the book
On that shelf
In our old home
And pressed between pages
Of planets and stars,
Dozens of
White flowers
Will fall to the floor.