He sits in a beach chair,

on the fire escape balcony,

the sweltering heat

encasing him in amber.

 

At his feet sits a seedling,

ghostlike, ethereal,

thriving in a yogurt cup

filled with soil of Babylon.

 

He sings lullabies of anguish,

in cryptic lyrics of despair,

positions a dented watering can

to catch his monsoon of tears.

 

“Hope is not the thing with feathers,”

he mumbles out to no one,

rotating the fragile seedling

in its worship of the sun.

 

“Hope is a seedling,

just barely visible,

watered in sorrow,

exposed to the light.”

 

Copyright 2017