I wonder if when the trees lose their leaves, they throw a funeral.

If the sun, out of reverence,

takes a little longer to rise the next morning.

If the dew that finds the grass is merely tears, 

the fog an embrace. 

Palms up. I am ready, I am ready, I am begging.

Head down, my neck bends till my face is well acquainted with the ground.

Like the plant on my windowsill, 

wilting, waiting,  

crying out for water.

I hear it,

I see the brittle leaves on my floor,

but I never stop.

I’m too busy and too distracted.

I’ve got more important things to do, 

To-Do: laundry,

            grocery shopping (dish soap & sugar)

I decide to come back to it, but 

I am forgetful. 

Careless.

Never trust me with a garden. 

Are You the same? 

Do You forget me? 

Do You walk by, brush my leaves, see the dryness, and retreat? 

Do You see my need and find someone else more deserving?

No, that is not who you are.

I must not be empty.

I must be begging 

the wrong people for water. 

I long again to be in Your garden, 

how I miss being a blossom.