Pressed Flowers

I watch the daffodils form

from their seed to their drooping heads

a brightened petal

shaking in the wind

I pick her shiny head

and place it in my hand

and the head no longer weeps or wallows

she’s now a stranger to these lands

I open to the page

where her head will quietly lie

sprawled out, fragile and free

peaceful, at rest to die

I close the book

add pressure

and in few days I can see

again and again the memory

of the yellow daffodil and me