Poetry of a Conlanger

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Seed Packet

I found a packet
Of seeds once, labeled “hopeflowers.”
One was planted in my garden,
But I didn’t mind.
Hopeflowers are beautiful.
So I watered it each day;
I weeded out the
Fast-growing, ugly,
That sprang up around it.
Into it was poured my whole heart.
But after sixty
Days of clear blue skies,
Those well-meaning storm clouds rolled in.
I could have protected my glorious hopeflower,
But I was so certain,
So certain,
That it would survive the well-meant
I waited, detached from my garden,
Until those clouds, that thunder, had left; then,
Oh then,
I saw my hopeflower.
A keen, politely chosen bolt of lightning-
That’s what had slain that hopeflower.
I cried more than the storm had poured,
I raged and shook my fist through bitter tears,
All to no avail. My hopeflower has been murdered.
Now I sit and regard these
Fragments of hopeflower,
And my gaze falls upon the seed packet.
Should I risk it?


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