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The One Who Sends Flowers
Without end it seems this unruly drought,
This fabulous lack of frippery.
Just when its persistence proves in doubt
My yellow brick road becomes slippery.
I have no answers to the big questions,
The ones that burden your mind past midnight.
I lack helpful hints, worthy suggestions
Or the power to set everything right.
What a boon it would be, then, for the frills -
Not one occasion would go unnoted.
Soothing sympathies, quaint moments of thrills -
Countless chances to prove I'm devoted.
Indeed, in those great and desperate hours
I should be the one who sends you flowers.
