I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
I was good, I was just, I took only what I needed,
my happily dirt-stained fingertips treated each preserved beauty with the utmost love
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
a secret I shared only with passing cars and the once perfect gardens.

But passing cars contain people, and people have gardens,
and everyone knew
So I began to press the life out of beauty, and I did it only for you.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
my now gloved sterile hands caressing sallow dahlias and florid roses,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out made just for you!
and my gold tipped spotless fingertips could see nothing wrong.

As I ran, my long hair no longer flew in the wind,
the few remaining strands stuck limply to my wrinkled skin.
I grew weak, stems slipped through my desperate fingers,
so much beauty was too much for shaking skeleton hands.
My eyes barely opened and were filled with fear,
Who would pay attention to me if I had no pressed flowers to bear?
I searched for flowers and found winter instead.
But people still came for more, asking and pleading,
confused, saying that there were countless flowers, ripe for the picking.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
happy couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
Could there really be flowers I wasn't seeing?
I looked down at my hands, gold fingertips cracked and worn.

My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
I didn't need to see if people told me what they needed.
I picked sallow dahlias and breathed in florid roses,
filled orders and was met with smiles, laughter, and love,
until August was over, until the need for flowers
had completely dried up.

In September I waved at passing cars, varnished nails flashing,


I still run and I thieve for a love not my own.
But I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
for others to find their love even if it is unknown.
Because I shook my bones until only pennies fell out,
but pennies are just pocketed rust to those who are afraid to love/ to those who have no time to love/ to those who don't take the time to love


What can fool someone so far to think the sun has gone cold?
Was it August's pollen showers? Could they really be mistaken for snow?
Are sun scorched sidewalks so white-hot that they numb barefoot toes?
How can something pave the world in grayness and shadow even beauty that was preserved?
Can something so simple make gray clouds greater than gold?
But then why is it so terrible to see beauty in the dull?
It is love that can make gray clouds greater than gold,
but it is also love that can dim the rest of the world.