Psyche

The acrid smoke
does not detract
from her studying
of a pale flower,
lighter than Tarheel blue but
deeper than empty sky.
It hovers above her palm,
held by her thoughts,
while she pictures it
within her mind
and thinks what to do with it.

Soft beauty,
elegant, if marred,
thumps its way
through sweet, flower-strewn grass
and over blue-speckled
hills,
dropping petals
that catch upon the
rough fabric of
flame-coloured homespun
(love me, love me not)
and ignoring glances
from untouched
and graceless
souls,
like me.