You are still standing as a one-legged grace on your round plastic foot. Like a thirsty plant, I pour water, in the round opening. It is, so you don't fall, when it shakes and lifts you up, like someone shaking your wrong dress. You've been in a side position twice, but the headwind picked you up again, as if by itself. Sprouts now sticking out of your umbrella, and thinned out in your whole complex. You weren't a strong umbrella, not one for the second summer, the heavy one. So I pour some more water into your plastic foot, and watch from here, how you grow, in spite of this you might become a big flower, although I used you as an umbrella more often than as a shade provider. A parasol can also become an umbrella, if it rains long enough. An umbrella can also become a parasol, if the sun shines long enough. A fear of contact overcame me, Ever since I left you in the first storm. Who knows, maybe you even brave the snow. Why should I put you in the corner now??