But is it easy to
pick up the pen and fill empty pages
with words? Lots of words, each a single seed sowed
in the soul of the scribe. And whence might they emerge?
Might they, like grass, part the earth and stick out
their tongues to the skies in blatant mockery of god?
Or might they fall from those skies, as rain or as blessings,
dousing pages with knowledge? Bringing euphoria –
the beat is called, the dance is made: Happy Wet Day!
Or, still, they might choose rebellion: millions of protesters
surging forward, chanting crazedly, barging in!
They’re bold. They’re – you.
these words are for you!
These little words…These seeds,
sowed in the soul of me.
You were that farmer; your love was the hoe.
Tirelessly, you worked. Tilling, clearing,
sowing…two years long…
Did you ever tire? Did your back ache
from bending for so long?
Did your hands, tender and nice,
soothing, healing as the balm of Gilead,
hurt and become bloodied, for the land was
too, too, hard? Too stubborn? Did you hiss?
Sweat? Groan? Why didn’t you stop?
The seeds have grown and now are
ripe for harvesting.
Allow them to build you a fortress, safe and secure
from this morbid black rider, cast a ward around it.
These little words…These seeds;
they are for you!