They wither now,
unperfected with dots of dissuading heat,
I touch the touch of seasons, take it in my palm
and feel the life seeping away, I free the force
plucking it from the scratched wooded source,
and set it on the iron bar, its last touch of height.
It stays in between weighing the air towards me
and that which would have it reach the ground,
exasperated and thoughtless that I can be,
I seize it once again and drop it, turning my back,
not to see its final journey end, by my hand.
They wither, now I melt.
Photograph clicked 19 March’14, presented with a hundred-worded verse.
* 11 April 2014, The new leaves now adorn the pillar of strength. Linking it up with Poets United Poetry Pantry.