Every drop is a vote from the blue for flowers.
A ballot box on a windowsill,
stuffed with the substance of clouds, elects the best
seeds to higher office, the worst to shady
pockets bribed by fertilizer.
Specially interested weeds seek their advantage.
Mud-loving bugs corrupt the leafy greens
while subtle worms will undermine the roots.
All plants are the slow words of fast rain--
the erected officials between us and the sun.
We look to them for nourishment and charm.
We are shocked when they poison us or harm
our fingertips extended for their care.
Hurt us enough, they find themselves not there.
After votes are swung they fall, their party hacked.
But storms will come again. They will grow back.