I don’t do it to impress you
but sometimes I do.
I don’t do it because it comes easy to me
but sometimes it does.
At first a word may look foreign or too oblong ruining a perfectly good “nothing”
but you can’t just stop when that happens.
Soon it’s going to bud.
Then another word as small as a seed will break though the iron ground.
The wordlings feel the scrutiny of the sun
Their baby leaves hot and red nearly singed fresh heat on its face.
Yet, your words sprout.
Even though it doesn’t seem like it’ll make it until the end – whenever that is.
Against all odds, the roots go down below and stretch and turn.
Against all odds, the stem grows in stature.
This takes time
A lot of time.
A long long time.
Then, it is a tree.
Young but it is a tree.
Emitting air for you an I to breathe.
Its shape might be weird, its bark may rough and its not the prettiest one you see.
But its your tree.
Its gentle in the shade it gives.
You made this.
You can nurture life.
The soil is not barren and desolate like how you first thought.
The possibility is within as nutrients.
So its origins are not just any seed packet. So recycled from life’s compost, from your garbage, from a “dumb” feeling, from a silly idea, from a fight, from pain, from a tiny tiny seed – from your pen – a forest, lush, fruit, sustenance, form, nature, a world. The ink and tears and shivers and sweat in your eyes and hair and hands germinate. So with our bodies we can speak and plant. Offer it all, the darkest deepest worst and leave behind a garden.
Your green thumbs, red blood, graphite and lead inspire all others.
So although its yours, secret, private, yours.
You should share it.
Point it out.
Talk about it in whispers and softly when its just you and them.
Screaming when necessary – its the carbon for you and your plants, you and your garden, you and your thoughts, you and your mind, you and you.
While yes climate change is real, and we hurt our world without saying sorry without stopping without remorse and I do it as well, the soil is good and we can write.
There is hope.
For your one paper.
For that sentence the one that has never been said that desperately needs a nice day by the window.
There’s hope for all of us here.
There’s food for all of us here and we can survive.
So write and arrange and sow.
It will be grueling and back-breaking work.
You’ll see someone else’s and look at yours and be disappointed.
But this takes time.
A lot of time.
A long, long time.
Eventually, you’ll impress yourself if you continue.
Give it a chance and give it love and sunlight and water and sing to it.
Because nothing will ever grow like your flower.
Be gentle with your petals.
Don’t hack at the roots in a huff.
Brace for the cold, it’s going to happen.
It’s the right season now.
If you want the harvest you desire then write and don’t stop.
Sharpen your pencil for the future to reap.
Rhyme with your scythe although it may be dull.
May the sunbeams hit your rows with life.
May the rains quench your woods.
May the weather be favorable for you.
May the garden not grow in name nor height but in your heart.