Along the hard crusts of love

The fragile white perfumed blossoms
collapse into the winds with a sigh
along the hard crusts of love, the crumbs
of life thrown out into the sun to dry

And shall I pick them up one by one?

- the leavings of tiny scented flowers
dried up seconds left out in the sun
and heap and pat them into hours.

I’ve breathed enough, deeply inhaled

the wind, the heat of midday light,
faint scents of dusts as they sailed
slowly into my line of sight.

I’m glad they came, but the flowers are shed;

the sun and wind have dried up things
and all that remains is half chewed bread
and petals fallen into the evenings.

I’m glad you came, but I won’t wait

somewhere on the outer fringe
of seasons, eaves-dropping on a raging debate
on the irreversibility of change.