In either case, no rose…

Regret is the
exchanging of
an imperfect
yet beautiful iris
for
the hope and gamble
of a fresh nearly
bursting rosebud
that instead
of flourishing
beneath a kind hand,
withers in the drought
of distance.

Regret is perhaps
having gambled
without full consideration
of the iris
or
the fun house
rose colored distorting
nature of possibility.

Regret is having
neither rose
nor iris,
as winter’s dark
armada arrays offshore,
poised and
looming.