The rain
only pours for a short while
And so
The parched flower,
enjoys its presence
To the utmost,
And in the tears of pollen,
A constant yearning
Keeps it empty through the night.

By god’s will
its roots are sufficiently filled
The little smidgen needed to survive
To live and breathe the liquid gold,
Becomes her purpose.
The evasive storm,
expected when she most blooms
Daren’t give poor marigold the time of day
Left in the piercing sun, she is
To dry and decay

Yes marigold is only one of many
Her constant failure can’t peak
The interest of the rain
Its beauty matched,
by roses and daffodils.
Even so
She pursues his soft,
pitter patter
and nourishing touch
And wishes to, until the gracing wind
Scatters her ashes across the sky.