Blowing the Fluff Away

spent the long winter drying on my wall,

mounted on black. But it had turned to fluff

some months ago. Tonight I took it down

because I thought that I had had enough

of staring at it. Brittle, dry and brown,

it seemed to speak too plainly of a waste

of friendship, forced to flower, culled in haste.

So, after months of fearing to walk past

in case the stir should scatter it to bits,

I took it out to scatter it at last

with my own breath, and so to call us quits.