You stop to write, and it is as though you are pausing at a fountain to cool yourself, and wash the dirt from your hands. It takes a while to get used to responding in living terms, to allow your thoughts out of their well-tended pasture and into the barren desert of a page that skeptical eyes may wander over. There is the tendency to make diminutive everything you’re trying to say, to busy yourself building that beautiful greenhouse for your beliefs, barricading yourself inside, and smiling through the glass. But how can you hope to grow ignoring that we are all under the same sun?
Leave the blooms to brave the wind
The wind will bear their legacy
Roses that under bell-jars grow
Though fairest seem, wither alone
And never will a garden yield
Nor fragrance swept, nor flower field.
No comments:
Post a Comment