Best Pressed Ivy Leaf

I can't remember when or where,
I can't remember why
I pressed this living ivy leaf
to squeeze it flat and dry,
preserving shape and colour,
though faded, sapless, bare.
I can't remember when or why,
I can't remember where.

It's not as if we're short of them;
they offer not one pardon
when, tendrils, sly across my path,
will trip me in the garden.
And yet I pressed this ivy leaf
and squeezed it flat and dry.
I can't remember when or where,
I can't remember why.

poem © Celia Warren 2013