Seeds

Strange fruit, pencils suspended, waiting

Seeds of ideas swaying, falling to rot beneath

Unless, unless I listen, take hold

Allow a presence to envelop me

It is not a fiend, a madness but a gift

Hanging fruitful before me, ripe for the plucking

Go with it my soul urges, yes, yes my fingers answer

But where will it take me? Where will I go from here?

Deep within the soil of imagination and sprout anew

Strange fruit, pencils suspended, waiting

Seeds of ideas and desire swaying

Wishing not to fall and rot beneath

But to come home and be loved, unpackaged

Ripen my hands to perfection

by Margaret Whittle

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