The Wilted
Morning breaks harshly on the horizon.
The suns rays are fierce even for first dawn.
She hangs, dangling from the prickled vine.
Her leaves succumb to their audible desiccation.
The withered rose clings to dwindling conviction.
The immediate piercing heat singes away the night’s mist.
Tears would quench her if it were possible to cry.
The aridity clenches more tightly with each passing breath.
A scant dewdrop could relieve the searing.
She dreams of the wind exhaling a faint hope.
Memories of smooth droplets upon her bloom flitter like promising butterflies.
Desperately she clings to her foliage as a small gust threatens to strip her stem.
The dust beckons her final breath.
The wind’s dry whisper brings thoughts of embracing the silence in peaceful surrender.
Her history is of little consequence as she dwindles nearly lifeless and alone.
As a mere bud, her beauty was admired by many.
City bustlers once stopped to waft her sweetness.
A hapless lonely death seems to be fate’s card.
The feigning soul’s determined grip loosens as the first drop falls.
Twirling from the sky it lands directly upon her center.
“A mere glimmer, an illusion, a mirage,” she quivers.
But then, another splash falls upon her wilted leaves.
Instantly, she swells and straightens trying to catch the next gift that may fall from the sky.
She weeps with relief.
Her brilliant red blush returns as she drinks the renewal.
One by one, the small globules replenish her soul.
Her hopes are rewarded with restorative droplets.
Immediately the harshness of the sun lessens.
The light becomes a beacon lifting her head.
Once again, the day is a gentle friend smiling upon her face.
Drought reveals the overlooked miracle in a dewdrop.
F.
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