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November 24, 2002
Sometimes poetry doesn’t fit 100 words. So I’ll add words.

Wilting
she's wilting
inside
like a scarf
draped on the arm
of an easy chair
less easy
than i feel inside

she's blossoming
outside
like a watering can
opening itself to the ground
pouring its insides out
one drop
at
a
time

she’s drinking
her roots soaking up
everything
it needs to survive
not mindful
of the price paid
by the soil
soiled
by mindless one-sided meals

she's flowering
more or less
reflecting the sun
off petals that seem to curl
whenever i appear
and yet

she's growing on me