If earth was a coin that could buy a bouquet,
Then tails would be night and heads would be day.
The faults and the grooves, the coppery smooth,
The designer’s initials for roses would pay.
A flick, a toss, a fortnight is lost
And into a pocket the dime is now yours.
Her tribes stick like grime upon common exchange
But who really knows if their home is worth more.
No one quite bothers, and truth be told
A quarter’s a quarter, not silver or gold.
So I smell the flowers and caress my ring
A gift for my dearest, the world be sold.
~tc©
