Poetry

Watering can

After all the hours of pin-pointed work, no end in sight of the path,

I can’t help but dream and long for the touch of a hot, comforting¬†bath.

 

To soak up all my sour maturity, ease out my twisted frowns,

wriggle out of my seriousness and stay awake, lest I accidentally drown.

 

Eternity in such a healing pool might prune my fingers and toes,

but I can say, without a shadow of doubt, that I’m no delicate rose.