The force of a paperwhite’s
Fragile pale flower
Alone, imperial stalk
And sadness so sour
In this solitary stance
With control thrown afar
Or merely, a stiffness
In the chilly wind.
It too has its arms
Of green that embrace
A sameness of form
In a mirror displaced,
As if the one can be all
And the flower pronounce
Every truth that will call
An end to it.
When the season turns
And the green cloak is gone
And little flower burns
With lack of power,
It seems to matter little
An invisible course we follow
The cat under the moon
On his fiddle.
LynnChakoian January 13, 2012
