It’s tomorrow and all the dead words are on the lawn. Sprouting. Digging in their roots. If the sprinklers are turned on then maybe there’s a chance they’ll grow. It’s conceivable they might dEvelOp into shapes and sizes both worthwhile and delectable. But harvesting such worth takes a steadfast, calloused, palm.
Your porous watering can does as advertised, yet I prefer the goodness within – hugging the walls of a sputtering hose knotted on both ends. Before things have seasoned, turning yellow, browning in the sun, they look as though they’ll always be anything but ripe. The farmer’s job is not to yellow them, but to make scrumptious recipes of green. To make children taste first broccoli and rub their bellies, “Mmmm!”
My words may...
drop from trees, fall from vines or shrubbery.
They’re meant to blow like dandelion-memories. They should stalk you, invasive like that of Kudzu. I want them to itch like members of the Sumac Family while smelling like roses.
But tomorrow, I’ll rise early and plow.
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