If Fault Must Be Had
The most fleeting of seasons
If fault must be had,
it does not lie with the flower
which dies all too soon,
depriving us of its heady radiance.
For a flower lives just as it is supposed to,
full of delightful purpose and perfection,
an explosion of unabated love.
Perhaps the fault, instead, lies with us
for, while looking over the flower’s
withered petals upon the ground
and blowing lost upon the breeze,
we believe that somehow the flower
was supposed to live until we had
our fill of its magnificent splendor,
that somehow the flower existed for us,
when, in fact, we would never have had our fill
and would have basked forever in its beauty.
If fault must be had,
it must lie simply in the profound
ache we feel at the loss of that
elegance we once gazed upon
and stroked with gentle fingertips
in that most fleeting of seasons
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