Pressed

I was walking down the library stairs
on my way to class after having my head
filled with Ginsberg’s howling beat,
and a smell rose up from the pit of
the library. Strong and almost sickly,
yet comfortingly sweet and it reminded me
of flowers. Pressed between the pages
of old hardcover books yellow with age.
Preserved, keeping their shape, their color
and a ghost of their scent to linger
and dance among the paper leaves.

Flowers haunting like the shades of people
living in the grains of the paper,
stitched into each spine of every book.
Pirates having adventures on the high seas
and revolutionaries changing the world
all echo through the pages, like voices echo
through the halls long after all the children
have gone home. Students crack open their books
to do their homework assignments and find
flowers, pressed between the pages.
Pansies and cloverleaves that are a message,
like little time capsules they say,
“I was here before you and I’ve gone on ahead,
come and get me if you dare.”

September 26, 2002