Scented tiny ruffles --
the wind blows
and the blossoms
throw themselves from their
anchor clusters
in the tree boughs --
whirling great clouds
of perfumed white --
a flower storm.

Soft tender specks land
on rough concrete
and cold smooth marble
that cannot hold them
against the hurricane
I feel
as a summer zephyr.

Frantically,
they flutter and wheel away,
each the christening gown
of a potential
sapling.

They die fast,
crumpling to my touch --
yet live awhile
gracefully respiring,
and expiring,
in the protected plump crevices
of my up-curved
palm.

Or they fall into my coffee,
and I swallow them whole,
so light as they pass that I don't even
notice.

Tomorrow I will wash my hair
and find them
shriveled in the tangles
like a memory.

by Sara, copyright 1999, all rights reserved