The Drifting Blossom

A tiny dried yellow wood-sorrel blossom lay curled in the clover beside my feet. I sat back on my heels by the ivy root, steadying my palms against the cool loam. The acorn cap was still resting in the soil, its water brim catching the sharp midday sun. Using the tips of two fingers, I lifted the fragile petal star and eased it down onto the pool. The clear surface dipped beneath the brittle edges without breaking, holding the blossom afloat. When a faint breeze swept past, the yellow cup spun once in its wooden basin, casting a trembling shadow against the wet timber bottom.