She loves me; she loves me not; she loves me;
What fortune lies within these petals dropped?
Why none, of course, save in the one still free,
Clinging to that stem that soon is tossed.
How true to life is yet this child’s game,
Since love too oft seems but the whim of chance,
Where if I choose a simple flower to maim,
The numbered petals measure mused romance.
This puerile plot therein guides chosen fate,
For how I start determines the accord,
And in fond hope my love, I consecrate;
Success assured within this floret shorn.
Contriving destiny upon a bloom,
Is sure a folly that most hearts assume.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.