Glittering ghost of gardens past,
you contain grain, a hope that will last;
though you are crippled, a Tiny Tim breed,
when Scrooge-Winter passes, you’ll scatter good seed.
Your seeds were sown for others,
but I will take your crumbs –
I seek something, anything, to fill this cavernous pit.
One smile is feast, one glance food for thought
for filling full the months of famine.
Cursed I am, to desire your mite,
atomic particles of comfort worn thin,
scraps of bone and sinew to gnaw
against this insatiable hunger.
Dare I for true Bread,
whose fortunes fed on fickle?
distended belly blunders on
in the shadow of the Manna…
How often I have gorged myself on what will never satisfy, when the Bread of Heaven is readily available!
Don’t let that vine strangle
what it took the summer to produce –
those wrestling moves of the botanicalworld,
seek to suck you dry.
Don’t let the clutching swagger
drown your song;
it is the seed you carry
in struggling womb
that sets you apart,
defines your purpose,
your Autumn Aria,
poised to enrich
the barren soil around you.
Learn the notes by rote
a melodic sowing spree;
your gift was predestined to
soar through the air waves
and feed the world.