Just like ripe fruit
My dogwood flower fell
Was snatched up
By strange hands and
Dropped in a basket
To mingle with the
Fallen fruits of others
Passing this way.
Mine, the solid flower of ivory
Bound by silver chains of ancestry
Lost to a collector, a gathering
One of many; oblivious
To my single bloom.
Who will know me? Who will come
Into my secret garden to
Count my petals? Who carries the
Seed lost to a stranger?
Who will bury it once more?