The Harvest of An Idealist

This brainwork is a bed of soil
A place she where she digs
And I watch as her thoughts they grow
I like to peek over the iron-wrought walls of friendship, fortresses and fear to see
The things that grow beneath
Her words fall
Into the freshly-watered soil of a blank computer page
To grow little things into big dreams – our purpose, our plight
Away from all the insecticide we hide
some transperant moments of everyday life,
We bury in our homes and nests, a little land of living plans
Deep deep in the dirt these ruminations can safely root
Observations they become sprouts then seedlings
She’s making creations and proclamations
About grave living things and the rights and needs of human beings
I like to look and see
Petals and plants
Delicate, free and living with the light she gives them
If you could put your thoughts in a pot
And then see a citrus tree spring up – wouldn’t you want to watch?
She speaks of family. I think of mustard seeds and oak trees
-the moments that change us-
The crops that begin, that needing tending, that tangle
The bending oak of age and circles widening within
While grand manicured botanical landscapes and groves speak of prestige and prowess
This one arboretum is a place
I am oft sad to leave.

2 Comments Add yours

  1. I love you, dear friend. My garden gate is always open to you.

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