Planting a Garden

Pitching Pennies Poetry

by a blank page
staring dumbly at me.

Rigid, this entity
without a soul
until timidly, then boldly
I mark it with my pen.

Slowly It becomes more pliant,
It begins to bend. I show it things…

A bird on a limb,
A latticed rose climbing,
painting scarlet where drab had been.

Suddenly arable, the page becomes a garden. Each line
a row in bloom. The air wears the scent of roses.

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About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on May 22, 2020, in Poem - Not Written By Me Though, Reposted from elsewhere. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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