A New Eden
Words might inspire but
no value befalls without action, nor
nor do all the hovering words in
all the languages of the world
speak nearly as well as
digging the shovel into the ground
that seeds can be planted,
for inspiration lasts only as long as
one shower, water enhancing
the sensation imagined,
yet imagination lasts only as long as
one stands under the trickling drops,
wondering when to turn off the water,
exit the shower to recall the
thoughts made brilliant by heat,
echoes, and dampness,
then to tease out the single line
worthy of writing to begin
to plant story, that in time
the bounty can be harvested,
a table set for celebration, and
seeds poured left hand to right,
right hand to left, and back again,
water trickling down and down,
prodigal with promise of food, drink,
ideas to discuss, to plot, to invest,
and dreams to nurture,
vowing more words to rise
before the season of bounty ends,
then to consider from where
the seeds first had come,
who the first planter,
who the gardener, and who the one
who labored long to harvest,
and would seeds appear once more
or take flight forever,
or in a moment of serendipity
bequeath the legacy of
a passion for inventing,
a trove of readers,
a yield of love,
that you and I might one day
decide to grow our garden
and plant our seeds and pray
for rainfall, sunshine, fortune,
then welcome all to the feast
of words gathered from Eden,
hoping to leave the miraculous
breath of curiosity that might inspire
you and you and you and you
with words that tell a story
amen yes amen
Just a Thought 37
Wheat Field by Vincent Van Gogh, courtesy CCO Creative Commons