The plant that I water wilted so slightly,
Though rooted to stones in the pot where it sits.
Occasionally I worry I’ll water too much,
Then starve the leaves by not sparing enough.
With countenance fallen, I see my misdeed,
As leaves sag with want of voice and touch.
Soil that is rich, but dry and parched,
Has not the means to yield its full strength.
Oft it is I, and not my plant, that wilts,
Yearning for water and light for my stalks.
As my heart turns to watering, my eyes soon follow,
Full of gratitude for those who water my ground.
Sturdier the plant, and more tender the leaves
That learn to depend on a caring source.
With light from above and water in my hand
Gently I’ll watch over those that I care for.