She tells me to plant this seed.
It's not much of a seed,
this seed.
It's not much of anything,
with wee crags and crenels
its slip of a crescent slides through
the creases of my palm,
but she insists it’s robust.
She persists with me,
This seed can live within,
where there are no waysides,
no rocks, no thorns.
It can live despite
the greedy shadows everywhere.
It will thrive
basking in the light of a future sun.
This is not Egypt,
she says.
No wicker basket will deliver you.
The river here isn’t strong enough,
she tells me,
and above her there’s the drone
droning on,
droning her out,
but in it I still hear her,
and she lets me have her ear too.
So came she to sow
and the souring
night couldn’t discourage
her final words to me.
Not thirty, or sixty
or one hundred days,
but one day,
the plant will grow
and it will be grown
to a great height,
a height higher than you
can imagine it reaching.
Its future sun will be
your present sun,
and the old days,
even older ways,
will wither wanting
their lost light and the fluid
love taken up by these
stronger roots.
6 comments:
Beautiful start…I like how it carries the reader from a metaphoric realm (stanzas 1-4) to current events. That’s a poem.
Francis, this is absolutely beautiful. There is something beyond words that you evoke here. Thank you again for sharing.
Seed sounds kind of dangerous, frankly. Thanks for a wonderful poem, Francis -
PG
@Ana Thanks... sometimes I get it right :).
@McDishy Sharing only works if there's someone to share it with, so I'm thankful for your visits.
@Peter Dangerous to a few maybe, but very beautiful in their flowering for the rest of us :).
Francis, Yes, you got it right. Beautiful writing.
Thanks Janet and Brenda.
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