Pressing Flowers

The flowers are pressed upon the page

Your fingers brush the brittleness.

Careful before they crumble.

 See the pollen they left upon the paper?

Their mark of proof of life. Plucked

In hopes and dreams to preserve their beauty,

 never again did they know the glorious dark of the earth,

 never again to see their brightly colored friends,

 to hum in harmony with the breeze,

never again to live after death.

Never again to be kissed and supplemented

by the sun's harsh and graceful beams.