A flower set on the windowsill;

gravely, the flower gathers water from

a quarter filled pot. And stem still green,

but water here lacks rill

and a stagnant touch browns the pedals,

(rotting’s faint trill,

through air, like evaporate’s keen

surrounding and ripples

and humid calm).

But flower’s white frill-

set against the window’s sill-

still admires the night

not fighting against the water’s flight.

Another day, the flower might.