A Moment

I build things up too slowly, that's my fault;
I can't hit punchlines evenly - or well.
I never quite line up with the gestalt
Or tell the joke the way I ought to tell.
When I plant seeds, I cannot water them
Unless the rain is falling from the sky:
Then I will fill the planter to the stem
And wonder why the soil isn't dry.
The flowers that I plant so rarely grow
And yes, I know that that's because of me.
I simply cannot fix myself, although
I have some inkling of what I should be.
My lack of timing is ingrained by now;
If there's a cure, please, won't you tell me how?