Pressed Flowers

Summer is here. This declaration of seasons changing came upon me the other day. As I looked over to see her hand out the window, flowing with the surf of the wind. Pushing it into a wave like motion. Sitting right next to me, but her mind was far far away. The beauty of nature spoke to her in a way I wish I could. The lush trees, and rushing river encapsulated her being while I was lost in hers. For the way her green eyes shined like embers of gold in a river. Her eyelashes naturally meeting one another to breath in the warmth of the sun pouring in from the open roof. She was fully here. Feeling everything. Even the soft touch of her hair caressing her face as it danced with the speed of the car. Nonetheless the sun held her locks, glistening it’s strands and releasing it back out. She is me, and I am her. 

I wish I could savor memories such as these. Like how a necklace saves the beauty of a wildflower through pressing it between glass. I’d allow the glass to press me as well if I could stay within the trance forever. Where nothing else matters but the careless act of watching youth pass. Like the mundane task of working on a tan. It’s a hard job really. The countless hours spent in the sun with no thought but merely allowing the rays to burn it’s way to my bones. By a river, on a bike, now in a coffee shop in British Columbia. It caress my arm through the tall windows, telling me it’s here. When nothing else is.