Always for the fickle days. Always for the drops of rain who fall too indiscreetly just to feed the shallow roots and lead these withered blooms away. All of me for artistry in foul weather breaking and for alms to seek in ripple after ripple taking time too lightly, so the flowers wait.
Always for a vagery, and always too uncertain.
Always all too little and a little bit too late, so that I’m always turning echoes and I’m always painting still-lifes, and the stillness still makes light of all these minutes as they fade.