I used to iron maple leaves between sheets of wax paper  to hold the moment the hills burst outvibrant as stained glass. This was how I told the trees I loved them. I’d press my joy then hang it in windows and on the fridge—yellow, coral, crimson, more permanent than syrup drizzled over a bowl of snow,more fleeting than a fossil in a museum. Now the color of dried blood and stones,my foliage lives in a storage box, mulching alongside boarding passes and valentines and dusting them all in paraffin. Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her … Continue reading Preservation, by Sarah Carleton