I know not how many tiers your fountain. It proudly stands in the piazza. All I have is my pitter–patter, pitter–patter–pit, softly, gently, hard to notice — continually, till drip and splash and undulation, reverberation, over the edge and overflowing over every lip.
Oh, drat. That worst kind of love, that listeth, smiles anon, does not scheme, expect, or devise, is content merely to be. Oh, this gets me nowhere, is too patient, has nothing to show for itself — careless: I cannot leverage you.
I’d go out into the world and find that marrow I feel in my bones must needs be found; a pause before the gate to check should there be anything upon these grounds or, maybe, give me time as I traipse amid the ants between the blades of grass here. I’m not going anywhere.
I sing to you, brass belle, deep, in your frequency, a joyful tone till two smiling wench’s eyes blink knowingly, happily back at me. Enthralled, you open your mouth and bless the reverberations with ethereal delight. Us two laughing, broomless witches clasp hands in the wind and fly.