Drinking Under the Moon

"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

Withering away on my windowsill

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 –

maybe

a

metonym?

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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This entry was posted on October 19, 2013 by in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .
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