Pressing Leaves

I have touched the horizon of last things, 
where my father’s heart flat-lined,
even though the respirator
kept lying to us.
 
I have watched a flood recede
to the lowest corner of the meadow,
seen the grass grow thickest
and truest in that place.
 
I have pressed river birch leaves
between the pages of my Bible.
Not even the weight of holy words
could flatten their veins. 
 
My friend once owned a gun.
One night, rather than kill himself, 
he turned it in at an emergency ward.
I have heard the gun was melted down. 
 
I have seen a flood of hope
seep into my friend’s hollows.
I have seen his lifelines press 
against God, leaving his mark.

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