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To Wilt
May 28, 2020
Are you the cure for all my desperate thirst?
The sprinkle from which I have been refrained;
My petals bloom and hope you are coerced,
But dry and curling do my leaves remain.
From water I am always unfamiliar,
But blood, its gory cousin, knows my name;
My father's killer staring from his mirror,
His dying breath a noose has come to claim.
So broken in your meadow I am swaying,
Not foreign to the sharpness of my thorns;
For the savior of your smile I am praying,
For the briefness of my own grin do I mourn.
But I'm inclined to realize your indiff'rence,
And bring myself to humble, low deliv'rance.
© Madalyn W., Holliston, MA
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