Pressed Flowers
You come back
with your mind
full of treasures.
Today, there was a leaf
plucked from a tree still coated
in whispers, a shard of sunlight
and a bird call you managed
to extricate from the sticky
strands of a banksia.
Yesterday there were
shadows rolled up
like rubber matts,
a butterfly wing
and the crystallized tears
of a child who was weeping
for the moon.
What will they do
with the pickings
you've piled up over years.
Will they empty
all the boxes
and throw away the dried
remnants of a life
kept between the pages
like pressed flowers.
And who will return
the tears shed
for the moon.
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