Time-Web

The day is sharp and hurried
As wind upon a dahlia stem;
It is harsh and abrupt with me
As a North-east breeze
Striking a bed of sunflowers.
Why should I break at the root
And cast all my fragile flowers in the dust --
I who am no taller than a creeping pansy?
I should be sturdy and definite,
Yet am I tossed, and agitated, and pragmatically bending.