She heaved her basket of luck,
the small one to be sold.
The rolled bundles of cut flowers,
tomorrow would be old.
She waited for her only hope,
she waited in the cold.
Now, they had all that she did not,
much more than they could hold.
She trailed the heels of the tourists,
she badgered the employed.
Some bought flowers for their beauty,
some grace for the destroyed,
some bought flowers for their love,
some for those to avoid.
They saw the basket and petals,
but not her in the void.
She had a name that no one called,
she was seen then unseen,
The flowers were cherished till bloom,
while she had never been.
She took comfort in tomorrow
which she had never seen.
In a midst of the torn tempest,
a fragile figurine.