A Fallen Grace

My hands,

made of gold,

couldn't touch

the flower

that separated from the tree,

like a teardrop,

to grace the tired road;

to pick it up,

my poor hands,

engaged,

couldn't stoop so low.

the blossom was caressed

by the sun though

I wasn't able to

take my eyes off

this neglected piece; 

a fallen grace,

a curious chef-d'oeuvre

built with utmost care

that Gustave would've taken

to build the Eiffel tower, 

standing tall;

or Leonard could've 

yearned for days,

to bring the smile

on la Joconde's face,

years ago.