He
took a word, cutting it
carefully
from the dictionary,
making
sure the edges were
straight
and aligned.
He
took the word, holding it
gently
in his hand, then buried
it
as a seed, and waited until
it
took root and sprouted.
The
word grew. Empires rose
and
fell, disappearing into dust
finer
than white sand. A thousand
suns
rose, set, and burned
themselves
to cinders, as planets
journeyed
in preordained orbits
until
breaking free from gravity’s
pull,
moving into darkness.
Still
the word grew.
Still
the root endured.
Photograph by Ian L via Public
Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
6 comments:
One of your best, Glynn.
Amen, my friend, amen!
it did a whole lot better than my sunflowers did this year. my fault though, as to the dirt and feeding. hope to have another chance at it next year.
i would like to plant a word like the one in your poem.
Well done, sir - well done!
remarkable ...
May I guess what that word was?
It must be LOVE. I say you again at Rick's Saturday shortcuts.
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