In the early morn
The flower cries its dewy tears
That glisten on the petal soft
And relieves the flower of its fears.

After the evening rain
The tree leaves drip, to cry
The tears that roll down the bark,
And the tree whispers a content sigh.

During the dark night
Worries neither flower nor tree,
Their weeping has opened their soul
Mine remains shut -- it doesn't work for me.

31 May 1988