Women gather petals strewn
like blessings on the congregation,
bending to retrieve before brute feet
can bruise or trample them -
a small memento, scattered
like confetti in the liturgy.
Perhaps they'll place them
near the family ikons,
tokens of the spring, votives
symbolising resurrection.
A little mound of silky sepals
torn from southern autumn gardens
nestles in my hand,
until I meet another woman's glance.
Her eyes bear true impressions
of the early light on skies and seas,
though she'd be maybe eighty
if a day. There is a freshness
in her gaze that makes me offer
what I've saved - her irises
like two blue islands,
long ago and far away…