I see the pot on the windowsill cracked

I see the pot on the windowsill, cracked,

its flowers wilted, yet they tell a tale.

Life’s dance isn’t perfect; in time, we’re racked,

what once stood vibrant now gasps and pales.

This terra cotta holds more than mere clay,

reminders of seasons when colors were bold.

But now, every petal that fades away,

tells stories of endings, the secrets untold.

Each chip a lesson in letting things go,

what once was alive now crumbles to dust.

In the sun's dying light, I learn to sow,

a little more love, a little more trust.