If it were enough to lightly lean upon you, to protect you, I would become a water lily.
I’d lay out slowly, letting myself sway and I’d spread my leaves as in a long green carpet. Barely outlined, only with quick brush strokes, like your slow waves that open and close.
Don’t cry purple tears, just let my petals mirror, let me slowly color your surface with my blooming.
I come and go, I fall asleep. I lightly blush with the sun’s strong dim light.
I hear the steps on the bridge over me: they come and they go, they stop and two eyes look at me.
And they will keep staring at me until they will have strongly dragged me on the canvas. Where I will stay to protect you even if time goes by and your water keeps flowing, always different but always the same.