She is looking up, towards the thunderclap cloud,
The rain washes away the dust that clings to her shroud.

She came alive this evening, to hear the mockingbird weep,
And was caught in the rain storm, while the whole town was asleep.

Her feet are drowned from the water that won't sink in,
And the drops form small canals that wind on down her skin.

Her eyes, half-open, are now looking towards the trees,
For all the flowers that are kneeling on their knees.

She grasps a red one, and pulls it from its hearth,
And one-by-one she takes the flowers from the earth.

Entwines them in her hair, a visual melody,
To halt and slow the rain from taking her memory.

With daisy, iris, mum, enfolded in her head,
She takes one hundred steps and stumbles to her bed.

Her fingers linger on the fragrant floral loom,
She lies her head down, resumes sleep in her tomb.

~

The painter captures the faintly winded parachute,
But the overflated balloon proves itself unable to execute.

He waits for the rainfall to come and do its job,
And on his failure he places a final desperate daub.

All around, taunts the enchantment of inspiration,
While in his hands lies the springy mass of hesitation.

The jaunty parasols, lined up in a distant row,
And all the flower heads that the wind will blow.

He walks around the drowzy town, wishing for something,
Something, mystic, magical, like a fairy ring.

When a rustle in the leaves of the garden near the beach,
Catches his attention but is still far out of reach.

One hundred steps to the place where he will be,
Walks a lively corpse, its form beneath a tree.

The painter walks behind it as it shuffles to its grave,
He sketches out its figure, its likeness he will pave.