Pressed Leaves

By chance, I found them, there... Three pressed leaves, with brittle veins of delicacy Tucked between the pages Of a tattered book of poems Overlooked and gathering dust, A cover worn, with broken spine It had your names, an autumn date, With script inside, a faded time... Caressed in yellowed tissue, these three from ancient trees Discarded long ago from russet crowns A memory, kept, of time, so keen, Of a long ago, brisk autumn day? Where leaves had fallen so bold and gay, then twirled on down From breezes that gently made the Sycamores sway A place you walked and held his hand, and knew forever your love would be Perhaps beneath those trees you made a plan for me When winter's chill and stolen years had not yet come Where fragrance of fall and new young love was found From soft carpets of scarlet, red and brown You chose these three from all the rustling hordes that grew A tree had finished using them, in remembrance of you They were yours for awhile...for your love, perhaps a lover's bed now....here in my hands they lay.... They are mine to to keep, pressed leaves, To keep for now, close to my heart instead...