Feet, legs, body, me —
Criss-crossed, wrapped in the aged green grass
Under the warm, familiar shade
Of the old oak tree.
Roots, stalk, petals, leaves —
A bud I know from ages ago
Bloomed one day — with my hand, but not my say;
A rose on its own enjoys the breeze.
Wind, hail, the clouds did fade.
Yet, within the reaches of my haven,
A disconcertingly hollow exchange
Makes me miss the sound of rain.
Hate, love, passion, pain —
I wondered how long the calm could remain,
Examined the flower for signs of thirst,
Wondered at how the plant did sustain.
Words ring emptily
Across the field and through my head,
And to my rootless body’s bones, which
Grasp the blossom shakily.
Anxious fingers gently thread
Through the foliage-filled facade
That puts up no vicious, thorny fight,
To my wary, growing dread.
Now hearing every dry word said,
I realize the eternal drought;
Touch the deceitful rose, which gladly falls —
Its once bright petals still falsely red,
But I know now that the roots were long dead.