by Megan Huwa

A bouquet of blooms on a day of good health.
The hours usher us
to surrender to the idles of health.

One flower bows its bloom, and
the days usher surrender
one by one by one.

I remember petals still
white, blooms brought low
to the hope of health—bear it no more.

To the hope of it is well:
I can still smell the fresh bouquet.