It is not fair. will be.
A maple tree was planted years ago. The first years, learned the seasons in cruel. The fog was fresh. The rain was wet. The sun was warm.
years later, grew from the seasons. by the passing of day, growing curious to each season.
In the year, was stronger still. And craved harsher storms, wanted to be challenged, yet, had a respect for weather could bring.
days pass by and turn into weeks much easier.
years later, a giant lightening storm, one branch broken, the tree okay, holding strong.
I walk, the streets carry me, and I hold them as well.
There are a complaints, growing. in recent reflection, it is when I run the conflict into the ground by creating a symbolic story, the web is easier to grasp and I can stomp on the crunch of fall leaves knowing my season is still coming.
A house was built on a hill.
The older poets got it right if you ever care to read.
We are spoiled generation. There is no reason for one of us to starve in resources.
To hog the spoil, many pigs.
To fight the spoil, intellectual reward. It is of durable knowledge, and tried wisdom.
Our habits friends of their own.
A clean house wants to be cleaner.
To have not, is to require.
To require, demands adjustment.
To adjust, is to gain or eliminate.
To have, keeps.
A perfect record.
A broken record, always to be fixed.
A happy home is like a potted plant that has room to grow. A happy room; depends on temperature.
Our tasks remind us that we have desires, and vice versa.
Your biggest accomplishment will be doing it on your own. Your biggest gratitude will be knowing who and what it took to get you there.
Not everything grows upright.
Every day is another chance at life. into who we already are, or, shaking and finding another form reminding us how to begin again.
An onions’ outer layer does not smell as strong.
All are on a journey back home by nightfall. Guided by street signs, familiar roads and new beginnings.
Prose
2 Likes
1113 Views
Share: