never hold a thing in your hands, much less heart.

a breath of love blown,
the petals begin their curl, closing in on themselves
indignant, withering
altering their weight in anticipation of the next gust
to float on the winds
to disperse their seeds in new fields, to
come to rest in new and unfamiliar grounds.

the inhalation presages loss
imperceptible, the retraction, but for a strange metaphysical discomfort
heave, what was given is gone,
never to be reclaimed not even in cover
even as the act was being carried out sacrifice tinged it
and yet.
intransigent fatalism,
ever the prey of impulse, praying to be figured favorably (thought that requires skirting convention)
pushed and pushed and out it came.
just go then. go.