An Ink Stain on a Page

"Draw me a bouquet,” she asks, “A green stem, each leaf refreshed with a bead of dew, Flowers in every color of the rainbow—draw them for me, Blooming from the belly of a water urn, anew.” I set about the task as if my path is set, My entrails tell my right hand what to do. I stain the page with ink and paint, I shall capture a likeness true. The leaves move through a spectrum of green and brown, And pollen dust lies scattered across the map beneath; Bowing to the weight of time, the stems bend into wreaths, Upon the page, bound down. A shower of petals descends through the air like cold showers, And she thunders, suddenly halts my hand, and says, “Enough!” “Draw me a beautiful wreath, not a heap of wilted flowers. Erase those that have dried, and bind the rest with ribbon like a scarf. I do not care to witness a bunch of withered blooms.” But my pen comes to a halt—an ink stain on a page, And the flowers disappear, from stem to crown. An ink stain on a page, Covering all, it trickles down. An ink stain on a page, Her eyes do nothing reverence pay. An ink stain on a page, Already she asks for a new bouquet. An ink stain on a page— And I too am cut down at this stage.