I thought about that veiled future,
the horrors behind,
until, by my side, sat Father Time.
That tender death
brought upon by drought—
the water pitcher tipped
onto an empty lawn
Could I will the seedless patch to sprout?
Would He still sit in that spot,
quiet in anticipation for something gentle
to be born?
Could I create a loving nectar,
vial of thought, sweet
and smooth—
or is it fear, my sharpest spear,
that plucks these poems from
the page,
an early bloom?
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