Out there in the fallows some new sprout must late be sprung.
Why, surely something of nothing must raise its tiny head. Must
spring to life among the dead. The sower casts his seed, so fulfills
the master’s need.
But the weed too is sown, you know. Knowing not where it’ll end
up growing, wills its way into the world wherever it finds a crack.
Must spring up like all its finer cousins, who preen in all their glory,
each a poem, song, or story.
But the weed just waits and waits there at the corner of heaven’s
gate. And even if he never makes it in, he’s found a patch that’s
good enough for him.
poetastrophy 