𝐴𝐹𝐹𝐿𝐼𝐶𝑇𝐸𝐷

the scent of plums detaches from the blossoms and leaves off into the distance the mind is drawn where the wind carries the detached scent still more fragile is the dew of tears on my sleeves even in springtime waiting, the pine tree never withers in winter if I could use words like scattering flowers and falling leaves, what a bonfire my poems would make.