The Withered Bud

It cried thirst under the prickly noonday heat

Then slowly bowed down the parched, arid soil
Just a spray of dust hid it from the world
And a thug of twigs to vanish its trace
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Poor little flower bud, forsaken by its master
Crashed and trampled upon somewhere seldom heard of
Poor bud that has been a fleshy green promise
Of a sweet, slender, scarlet flower
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Once a seed, sowed and nurtured
At the heart of its master, it has been a joy
But along the way, the master could wait no more
He abandoned the plant without seeing the shoot.