So You are November Fifth,

And a Cypress growing

In the January heat of my mind

With strong roots to dissuade the withering

Of this most foreign Winter.

Look over what you've done;

-Overdrawn at my small oasis,

Such that the sharpest blades are brittle.

And  this, To extend one lovely limb-

From which to fall short of everything.

In the daytime that fatal ledge is clear.

You've opened the brightest blossom there,

And adorned delicate petals to wind dance.

I've walked steady those precarious summer months-

Enough to know the intimate mortality of a mirage,

From fingertip tears that drop more real from a common tree.

Like a warmer day, a Willow may lust for rain,

But her branches will bend to ambition.

And though her sun shield fails

When first the sky turns grey

It's in accordance with the nature I know.

So when I hesitate before the rain,

You needs must understand-

That it's never to preserve myself,

But to prevent the woe of roots so deep-

Growing in unwilling sand.