sturdy and small, round edged, wooden and light.
I stalked the pasture's rough and waist-high grass
for worthy specimens: the belle amid the mass,
the star shaming the clouds of slighter,
ordinary blooms. The asters curled
inside my sweat-damp palms, as if in sleep. Crushed
in the parlor's stifling heat, I pried
each shrinking petal back, and turned the screws.
But flowers bear no ugly bruise,
and even now fall from the brittle page, dried
prettily, plucked from memory's hush.
- The Flower Press by Chelsea Woodard
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