Windowsill (Poetry)
09th September 2012
Green things grow upon my windowsill —
I keep them from the cold
like glass can shield us all from Winter’s bite
I water them and nurture each
from drought— becoming prematurely old —
leaf and skin well-nourished day and night.
I guard against the too-strong sun —
its well-meant smothering
that dries and curls and wrinkles with a touch —
preserve the bloom’s pink dewy-fresh
stay off the fade to withering —
slow it so it doesn’t shock too much.
Such lushness seems remarkable —
plants flex their glossy green
their life requiring little more
than sap to rise and raise each head
like liquid hope slipped inbetween
to satisfy the hunger at its core.
Faith creeps along my windowsill —
fills jars wild-seeded in belief —
more pots of cream to smooth a furrowed brow —
feed the parched, thin-layered flesh
and fill the growing ache beneath —
outside the frost grips hard upon the bough.
I keep them from the cold
like glass can shield us all from Winter’s bite
I water them and nurture each
from drought— becoming prematurely old —
leaf and skin well-nourished day and night.
I guard against the too-strong sun —
its well-meant smothering
that dries and curls and wrinkles with a touch —
preserve the bloom’s pink dewy-fresh
stay off the fade to withering —
slow it so it doesn’t shock too much.
Such lushness seems remarkable —
plants flex their glossy green
their life requiring little more
than sap to rise and raise each head
like liquid hope slipped inbetween
to satisfy the hunger at its core.
Faith creeps along my windowsill —
fills jars wild-seeded in belief —
more pots of cream to smooth a furrowed brow —
feed the parched, thin-layered flesh
and fill the growing ache beneath —
outside the frost grips hard upon the bough.