Trades

We ran a plumb line down the chasm,

   perhaps thinking to balance bitterness

      with affection and cruelty.

Storms of passions don't invite

   peace of a level line and lost vows

      refract sadness in broken glass.

Can it matter if you lie and I don't care?

Trading on futures with promissory

   for a rare, dear flower --

an ancient tulip trade -

leaves us with the bulb unwanted.

Still, we plant and it grows after hard freezes:

    royal promises.

But, unexpected frost gathers on green petals:

    browning leaves wither:

the bulb is starved.

all that's left:  food for squirrels.