White Middle Part

Like a fool,
I mistook the flower,
for the one
my grandmother used to wear in her hair.
Its scent, is a tumble,  
a Longing,
for years and now,
white
the tips of her hair grow.
White
but unlike the moon ;
White
but unlike the pastel color,
I used to draw my grandfather's sketch with.

I hold the flower in my hand,
as if
I'm holding,
a glass jar of childhood memory ;
The flower seems,
a little tattered,
a little jolted,
as if
from a reverie ;
As if
the vein of life is cut in two,
the white middle part in her combed hair remains,
the red,
is no more.