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Time ticks on
and I am its minutes
crafting the hour
of poetic germination.
No longer will I write words
reminiscent of willow-like catkins.
But shall bloom true poetic flowers
whose petals shall be whorled
scented words pollinated with truths.
And whose essence shall be colored
in peace, love, unity—all cupped
together—housed in a sepal of liberty.
And my Edenic poetic garden
will be an ebony vase
overflowing with bouquets of beauty’s
clever creations—cultivated
in the fertile black soil of my watered soul.
