She loves me; she loves me not; she loves me—
What fortune lies within pert petals dropped?
Why none, of course, save in the one still free,
Clinging to that stem soon to be tossed.
How true to life is yet this child’s game,
Since love too oft seems but a measured chance;
Where if I choose a simple flower to maim,
The numbered petals mark proposed romance.
This puerile plot therein guides chosen fate,
For how I start determines the accord,
And in feigned hope my love, I consecrate;
Success assured in this sweet floret shorn.
Contriving destiny upon a bloom—
Is but a folly many hearts assume.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.