I think it’s always been in my nature to fill in the blanks when I take notice of an unusual situation or activity. I’ll create all manner of scenarios to explain what I just saw and accept one from among them as reality until more information proves otherwise, information that may never manifest. What inspired this poem is simple; I saw a man around 50 tossing out some nearly dead plants. Then my brain went to work and created a story around it.
Wither
I’m tired of trying to keep these plants alive.
The leaves are few; they haven’t bloomed in years.
I’m weary from watching branches pale and die
that once would greet me with vivacious cheer.
Perhaps somehow they sense that she is gone,
my fragrant rose who swayed such vibrant hues;
perhaps they’ve lost the will for living on
without her touch—a touch that fell like dew.
I’ve tried to care for them as once she did,
to keep them green and rioting in bloom,
but all my work has left them nearly dead—
instead of blossoms, growing mostly gloom.
I guess it’s time to toss them out—and mourn,
for she is lost and never will return.
This is my 11th Shakespearean sonnet.
