The sweet scent
Swirls up
A pile of pedals
Collected
From dead flowers,
An odor that lingers
Long after the blooms
Have perished
Soft to touch,
Staining the tips
Of my fingers
Like blood,
Popouri clinging to me
With memories
Of what once was,
A gentle kiss
The bitter taste
Of what could have been,
I hold it all
In the palm of my hand
Each edge frail
With the first signs of brown
Color draining
Long after the loss of life
Slipping through my fingers
And I can’t get back,
Needing new soil
In which to plant my seed,
To begin again,
Not the same pedals
Or flowers,
My fingers clutch,
The end as painful
As the beginning,
Only the lingering scent
Recalling that brief
Time of joy
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