Rain won't always
make the flowers grow,
Yet I insist on watching,
From behind,
A glass widow.

Condensation,
Stems from beating hearts,
A hot rush of air,
Cannot mask,
My harsh remarks.

No stretch of time can,
Caus the present to pass,
And reveal newly,
Bloomed petals,
From the brown and brittle grass.

Rain won't always,
Make the flowers grow,
Yet I smother,
All the seeds,
We have to sow.