As little girls plucking petals
one by one reciting,
“He loves me, he loves me not,”
All love and happiness rested
on the count of those petals
If an even number,
the girl is bitterly disappointed
While an odd count surely takes her over the moon
with his undying love for her
If only as adults that love and happiness
would be so definitively decided
as with the pluck of a petal
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This poem, along with others, can be found in my book Coffee Shop Sessions II: Moving Mountains One by One
Coffee Shop Sessions 