In my closet there is a crystal ball,
Damp with pale hues and a dark crack or two.
I do not own it, but it is mine,
A mire for things I can not hold.
Though my Providence holds my stems and my rose petals
I cater to the cares of that lucid orb,
Only listening to the Breeze with one ear.
My wanton worries crawl about in the dark.
Forgive me dear Breeze, for I am only clay and dust,
And fear like a child of faulty digits.
Even more so that my paint may not cover
But fall cracked and dry on the ground.
I can only yearn in the moonlight for a plentiful harvest,
And plant the seeds that I have in another's heart.
I know the roots and the stems will be as You craft.
My fear is my strength to stay to the plow.