She would shed daily

Those which were fresh until dawn

Would drop off her branches

The dusty road filled with 

What once were hers

Yet she saw 

A young girl

Picking up her flowers

And putting one between her unruly locks

It became a ritual

The bloom

The night

The dawn

The shed

And the girl.

Her flower finding its

Rightful place 

Now she holds on to her flowers

Drops the prettiest one

When the girl walks by

Taking it home

Carefully taking it from her locks

And places it by her pillow