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.