Ballad of the Cracked Vase

A primrose incased in a cracking vase
Stands on a windowsill bare.
And the window, it leads to a garden of weeds,
The flower, for which, doesn't care.

But the water, it seeks, it pushes and leaks
Trickling down through the cracks,
As the flower breathes in, clutching drops to her skin,
Desperately pulling it back.

And the flower, she knows: water wants, water goes,
And only comes back when it deigns.
But to live she must drink it, and sometimes she thinks it
Forgets it's the cause of her pains.

The water keeps going, dripping, then flowing,
The vase turning misty, then wet.
And the droplets run down, to the sill, to the ground,
While the flower must stay where she's set.

So the weeds gather rain from a strange sort of drain,
As the waterfall slows to a stop.
And the rose, as she wilts, slumps a little, until,
She can see the last of the drops.

Water slides down the weeds, down their stems, down their leaves,
Sinks, damp, through the roots and the stones.
Deaf to the calls of the petals that fall,
On the windowsill, landing alone.

March 4, 2004.