you do not like my flowers: throw them out;
collect the scents of other brighter buds.
But flowerless, and powerless I pout
about my lack of flowers; lack of love.

I garden and I wait, but nothing grows.
Your soil doesn’t take to nourishment.
Though I can be the sun, or man that sows
the seed; but I can find no ground to plant.

My flowers come from far, or must be weeds,
exotic, or too normal burden seeds.

But who says weeds are not exotic plants—
that should not grow and should not stand a chance?

I should just drop my seeds and let them float
on any wind that cares enough to dote.