The words and me in the garden of writing          


The words are every seed of plant
Sown by the Creator in the garden of my writing:

Every falling, fusion in the soil
Of my thoughts plowed and watered
By a bulk of loneliness and joys
In my history and present, is a hope
Yearning to mold a world with wonderful hues-
Every verse and metaphor
Is a petal that cares for every muse
That longs to share the voices of passion
(Or craves to take a sip from the nectar of self-concept
Of others)- like me, the butterfly, the bee: fretful
To every autumn (or flailing) that comes.
But thanks, the words and I are one:

Winter may dumb my pledges,
My prayers melt in a summer’s heat,
But the words etched in a ground
Where love finds its nest
(And where I, too, found my niche),
Will continue to flower, perfume,
Color my sheet as a new garden
In the next springtime of life.

Stephen 2004.