She’s Drawing Flowers

She’s drawing flowers
and reaches for the semi-final color
with most peculiar motion
as if knowing in advance
the hoped-for, longed-for variation
is never to be found, no –
not even for a first time,
not even for a sparkling second
Quietly she wonders
Then the next sheet is removed –
humble negation of any lucky chance:
Such does not exist,
not in this room
not in her fingers.
This knowledge has to do with fire
that burned the bush and did not consume it
(Or, did it, finally?)
Little does she know, little is she known
The flowers are slowly bending over
Their small reward remains unnoticed
But, sadly, even this is life.
So why stay strong for long?