Are we not like two volumes of one book?
This morning I wanted some roses to bring
but so many I took that they buckled the spring,
the buckle, too tight, couldn’t keep them all in.
As belt burst, the roses flew off in a string
on the wings of the wind, to the sea for a fling,
they followed the current’s fin, won’t wheel back [s]wing -
the waves seemed blush scarlet wash, fiery flame fling.
Roses’sweet souvenir scents so closely cling,
this evening my dress seems a perfumed-stained skin!