3/24/11

What dormant seed inside of us,

Sprouts forth when we must speak?

Whose stifling, strong, constrictive vines,

Constrain us, mute and meek?

These grappling, saplings of the mind,

That smother forming words,

That thread our hearts and doubt entwined,

With thoughts that go unheard.

How diligent must be our skill,

To trim these web-like weeds,

To rend and rip, to strike and kill,

These creepers where they feed.

And yet, at times, in retrospect,

My clever comments lost,

Have kept my clumsiness in check,

And spared me precious cost.

And so, a gardener I must be,

To tend the wilds within,

With brush permitting gentle breeze,

But, blocking brutish winds.