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.