a poem by Evelyn Amissah
There’s something so poetic about pressed flowers, suspended in time. In resin, in glass. Like a silk aerial acrobat, soft, warm fabric on the skin.
Still, they stay, detached, apart. Never distant or far away, just out of reach, like flickering stars. Like them, but pressed in glass, there’s a certain finality to it.
A certain finality in a thing that will last forever.
Neatly pressed and perfectly arranged, never a speck of dust encased, never any indication that time does pass. Not inside that small case.
Though the glass is so cold to the touch, something that once was alive as if the warmth wasn’t able to be trapped or caught, or kept.
From below, from a distance, those aerial acrobats looked so open, free, and so much more alive. (Just like those petals, brighter than the day they bloomed.)
Though the silk after such time pass must feel coarse on the skin, with it feeling more a sneering noose than a needle’s thread.
And the release of gravity must feel so cold, like when you grow out of your own mother’s arms.
So maybe pressed flowers aren’t beautiful or poetic, maybe they’re just sad.