Pressing Leaves

I took three ginkgo leaves
from two trees transplanted
in the heart of our metropolis.
How odd the ancient arbors
seem hidden in the aspens
and junipers, which outgrow
the non-native bushel
in the quantity of limbs,
leaves, and outstretched height.
But I wouldn’t dare pluck
the conical cliche of yellows,
nor could I keep the needles
of evergreen foliage.
Instead, I wanted these green,
bifurcating, fan shapes
to be a small reminder
of a beautiful morning
on a city park walk with caffeine
and donuts, hand in hand
intimacy, late in September
as all the other leaves
began their cycle of death.
Once home, pettily distant
from the innocent memory,
I grabbed my notebook
and store-brand scotch tape
and began to catalog
all the symbolism of the day.
I considered how long the leaves
could remain pressed
in the unlined, coil-bound book
but not if the tape
would hold steady
and the cylinder seam
began to dry and die.
But somehow, those three leaves
remain in their place,
bookmarking our morning
and the difference between
native and ancient trees.

Lyndsie Conklin (she/her) is a Montanan transplanted to Colorado, living with her husband and cat, Beans. She enjoys getting outside, being a cat mom, breakfast foods, Diet Coke, oversharing Type 1 Diabetic memes, and writing poetry and erotica. Lyndsie attempts to find romance, beauty, and darkness hidden within the little things while highlighting these little, gross beauties within complex, current topics, such as mental health and LGBTQ+ and women’s issues. Lyndsie holds a Bachelor of Arts in English from Western Colorado University and a Masters of Education in Higher Education Administration from Post University. Some of her work has been featured in Soupcan Magazine, The Sleeve Magazine, Pile Press, and Dreamer by Night Magazine.