Maybe all the tiny grasses from the roadside in Kansas and Colorado.

The flowers you pressed in a book in California — they aren't for later.

They're for the glowing now. The now that refused to pick them later.

The stinging nettle is connected to the freshly dyed yarn. You released some of it in other states. Some of it lives here now, in the Amazon, in a home that feels cleaner than the one you left.

The plant remnants are like the strands of your own hair you keep. Oddly enough. And toss into the air wherever you are, because both of your parents said the birds would use them.