Find her by the roadside--
Fair of face,
And drawing the gray skies down into herself.
She wears white,
Like a nun,
Or the violet of an old-fashioned girl,
But she is the mad seed
With her sharp-edged leaves
And her wild girl ways.
Touch the beautiful little throwing star.
Press your face to her soft folds
And enjoy the pleasing scent of her.
She will cry before evening comes
And your instinct will be to comfort and soothe the pointed bloom that you have found--
But before twilight has moved into night,
She will be gone
And there you'll be, with her tears on your fingertips,
Wondering in the solitary darkness
If you have only been seeing things that were never even there.