"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
The flowers on my windowsill are dying,
Its leaves look like sugar paper – gradually translucing.
They bow their heads like swans; their beak-buds huddled to their stalks.
Is it cold on my windowsill? I wonder.
The Spartan box (in a rich pigeon breath color) looks like a small dying forest.
There are barely any leaves left – just small trunks like big green veins.
I wonder if there is a metaphor here –
Perhaps it means I too will wither soon,
Or maybe it is suggesting I water it.
Or maybe it is telling me I love you –
In some roundabout way.
Signaling the death of all my hope, all my feeling.
Or maybe it isn’t that at all.
I can’t even care for a plant,
How can I care for you?
I will give it water.
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