This is quite an old poem where I was using Eliot’s La Figlia Che Piange as a model.
Crushed petals fall on a cushion of air
to be carried away by the biting wind.
All she can do is stand and stare
knots of bitterness in her hair
shadows surround softly sighing.
Love plunged in a fountain one hot afternoon
watched by cruel, silent eyes.
Ice formed on the water all too soon;
winter winds upstaging June
a chorus of chimera crying.
A delicate bloom: cut, pressed and dried;
Once violent emotion now petrified.