Performed by Val Cole

Full full poem:

The Art of Pressed Flowers: My Twisted Passion

I pressed the life out of you,
to capture your bloom.
I am sorry I made the decision for you—
I am superficial.
I prefer you stay vibrant, long after your time would have passed.

I wonder if The Fates made a prophecy—
that it would be you, not one of your peers who sprouted beside you,
who would unnaturally escape the circle of life.
I will never know—if it were up to you,
whether you would have chosen to die surrounded by friends and family,
packed together in the same gated community.

I can tell myself that free will does not exist,
rather you embraced your prophecy,
impatiently waiting to mature and blossom,
each day, another opportunity
to claim more than your fair share of limited sunlight and nutrients.

I can tell myself you reveled in flouting your elders
before their imminent death and decay—
who preached the satisfaction of growth in oneself,
not just in the full bloom.

Yes, I can retell myself these stories—thoughts I’ve constructed to reassure myself,
to assuage the guilt of plucking you—
but that would be selfish.
Just know, you are not an afterthought.
I hope you are able to take joy
in the novel territory of the indoors, full of human creatures,
and do not utterly miss the feeling of being stabilized by deep roots in your first home,
intertwined with those you grew up with.
My wish is that you feel as bright and cheerful as the humans who stop to point at you—
unable to resist admiring your captive, yet immortal beauty—
nestled yet dancing across the landscape of my frame.