One petal: he loves me.

Two petals: he does not.

An endless cycle of torture

Whose outcome will soon be forgot.

Why do I leave my fate

In the decisions made

By a small field of flowers

Whose colors are soon to fade?

What does a flower know

Of the secrets of his heart?

How could a flower tell

Whether we are to part?

A flower is merely

Petals and long stem,

Surely no instrument

With which to judge him.

He is too perfect,

Far too sweet,

To be judged and weighed

Like some piece of meat.

But until I can find

A more perfect way,

I shall keep picking flowers

Day after day.