Bonsai

With shears clasped in a steady hand

I fashioned my sapling into a shape

That suited my mind’s eye,

Until the bright, budding leaves

Were perfectly displayed.

I trimmed the roots to fit

In the finest terracotta

So all could admire

The whimsical branches

And the serene shape.

But, you see, the poor little sapling

Could not bear these brutal changes

So quick in succession,

And so the leaves turned brown,

and fell like tears onto the ground.