I. 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. II. 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.