you mess me about, afraid to commit,
and I let you get away with it.
I’m scared that if I pin you down
you’ll punish me by flying away.
So do I let you flit among my flowers,
skim the best of my summer blooms,
while deep in my roots I feel unrest
as I’m sapped of what keeps me whole?
Or do I insist you choose a stem to sit on
that won’t always bend to your whim,
and risk losing your custom for good –
though at least I won’t be short-changed?