Thursday, 23 January 2014
To the Seed Throwers
I've been feeding crows, they're hungry, and I give into their desires so easily, that they always come back. They pick at the seeds, mock them, and then carry them away. Their presence brings peace for a moment, but it is as fleeting as the birds themselves. I think about building a scarecrow, to make these birds leave me alone, but I love the birds, they're my friends, I'd hate to frighten them away.
Scatter the seeds, scatter some more; despite the crows, hopefully one grows.
The soil is rocky, I know, the ground is hard clay. Doubt and fears abide. Though sprouts may come, life is hard, quickly then life dies. To clear the rocks that keep me safe is such a dangerous game. But game it's not! It determines my lot, and if plants don't grow, I'll erode away.
Scatter the seeds, scatter some more; despite the clay, one might find a way.
The weeds abound, and at least they flower; bud, blossom, shrivel, and their seeds give way. Their beauty - fleeting- but still beautiful. I cannot, will not tear them out. The good seeds, though they try, are choked by the vines, overpowered in their shade.
Scatter the seeds, scatter some more; despite the weeds, hopefully a seed succeeds.