July 20, 2014
The words we write, the lines,
the notes, the rhymes
are always seeking their destination:
a landing place, a comfort zone,
a peace inside a peace.
Sometimes they find their place,
and sprout like seeds,
but sometimes they fall in sandy soil,
on stones, or disappear
into a hollow pit of nothingness.
But even then, like seeds, our words
await their chosen moment,
their time most opportune
to germinate and take root.
Everything in its own time,
the old folks used to say.