Pressed Daisies

The canal watches my summers pass by.

Full view of the path I take to the beach,

where I saw a large snapping turtle hide,

or the picnic we shared pieces of peach.

I pick flowers to press and mail to friends.

I weave a basket from soft willow sticks,

stabbing them in the ground, forcing their bends.

Stresses on our friendship, I try to fix

by bringing you gifts, telling you stories.

Goslings walk up to my hands, bold, daring.

Run to see the falls, whitewater flurries.

Balance on a stone, drunk and uncaring.

Summers preserved in flowers, pressed in books.

Artifacts among rocks, seashells, fish hooks.