Like Pressed Flowers

Long ago I saved in a book,
like pressed flowers, the only smile
you ever gave me. Now wanting
to see it once again, I open
to the page and find only dust
and memories. My dispirited eyes
fall on these lines:
       We must lend ourselves to others
       and give ourselves only to ourselves.


Two young hominids, buried together,
matching necklaces of scored shell
about their necks. We know they used
tools, felt love, had a sense of ritual.
Their friends who buried them
and the slow, impartial processes of earth
have granted their fondest wish: to become,
like pressed flowers, almost inseparable,
almost one.