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A Petal of the Mist
A petal of the mist fell on my tweed,
a fragrant shade of flowers of the hope.
My garden used to have the flowers’ scent.
A kind of dope. Defoliated now.
I used to pluck the flowers for the thrilling
and magic fortunes-telling. I conjured
for tenderness--devoting, holding breath,
awaiting for a miracle. In awe. So hopelessly.
Now, borders of the seasons all crumbled
and quickly disappeared in the helix
between the petal of the mist and scarp of hope.
Cool, pointing at change as the only constant in the planet.
It's a poem from my novel.
Thank you for the kind comments.