Poem

i am afraid to pick the flowers

that grow on the side of the footpath

in this strange country.

even when they have such a fragrance,

such a fragrance that you can smell them before you see them,

and sometimes you don't even see them,

still i am afraid to just pluck one,

to just break off the stem at the node,

with the longish nails of my thumb and index finger, like a pincer.

instead, i rub my thumb into the very heart of that little white flower,

so that i can enjoy the scent for a little longer,

at least until i reach home.