by Jo Halliday
I am guilty
to carry the flower's scent with me,
now the flower asks me
what right I had, to take what someone else could have?
The flower bloomed all alone
but standing fast, knowing someone will pass by
and when didn't, doubting but yet standing.
Was I playful, regardless, hasty,
did I know how to preserve the scent,
not just in mind but dreams, in life's bedrock?
Here I am, a forlorn struggling poet,
who lacks the patience to steep in the loved fragrance,
who lacks the perseverance of love.
The flower, will she ever forgive me?
Posted on 02/25/2019
Copyright © 2020 Jo Halliday