With What Words

I know not where

This yearning was born,

For I am but a mortal

From a lowly place.

I know not when

This passion was formed,

For at first it was.

Winters come and winters go

Stripping my trees of old leaves,

Allowing new ones to grow.

Yet somehow

This Remains;

Like shoots of grass

Lying dormant under snow

Patiently awaiting their season.

I see others blossom;

Turning once lifeless

Patches of land

Into lively colorful gardens.

When will I bloom

And utter flowers,

Or transform my fields

Into lush meadows?

Instilled, you in me

This one desire,

Now impart

That which inspires.

In truth, I cannot live

With a simple aspiration.

I must at least have one

Great expectation:

Live up to this noble vocation.


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