Dead Fields

At first glance, it looks like death. Grayish brown, still, parched, rustling.
If stepped on, it might crunch, crumble, and blow away.   
It's 100 varieties of brown and 3 shades of brownish green lingering through.
Scarred. Mottled with marks of existence.

The display of desolation would present perfectly if not for the  stubborn spurts of life.
We originated from migration, dust, from poverty clashed with ingenuity - sparking hope.
We grew up with dust in our eyes, wind parching our lips.  Particles of studies settling in our pores, the statistics of failure. 
And yet we stay. We grow under a demanding sun. We hope against popular odds.
We know that in a dead field there is unseen life.  We know that where there is nothing vitality can hide beneath the surface.
Dig in and churn, there is abundance, just add water. Delve deeper and fortune courses under the ugliest crust.

 

The spirit of our home reaches back to our founders. Reaches back to the assurance that despite all appearances, encountering nothing is a catalyst for success.

So we stay with dust filled lungs and souls because endurance, hope, and effort were our founders.  Though it is brown, still and parched, we are the life that defies the first glance. 

Follow the shadows

I exist when the shadows lean to the West.

And depart when they yearn for the East.

I remain when the sun leaves our hemisphere.

And wander off when it comes too close.

I'm the storm that overcomes senseless chaos.

And the stillness that listens to rain.

I embark on a path among wild saplings.

But leave the forest when trees are found.

I start alone but travel among many.

I end alone, then begin again.

I follow the shadows and find the saplings.

I heed the sun, and search for the trees.

Blocked.

Blocked.

Block.  Like legos, and wood, and childrens toys.  Blocked like a doorway. Like road construction.

Blocked forcefully into a wall. Hockey players call it checked. Check. Cheque. Czech...123 testing, testing.

Blocked. B Locked. Be locked.  Ideas will be locked up when you want them most.

Blocked. Locked. Hocked. Walked. Knocked. Rocked. Talked. Clocked. Mocked.

Inspiration mocks, sauntering around me in a steady walk, while gazing at the clock...something something hocked, knocked... blahblahblah.blocked.

Rhyming doesn't make it art. Fart. Smart. Tart. Cart. Chart. Heart.

Four chambers.

Two, if you're a fish.

They're friends, not food. Draw one in the sand, stick it on your bumper and you're a Christian. Put legs on it and you're a macroevolutionist. Symbols. They represent something big, and can reduce us to something as small as they are. Classified.

Organized.  Put into a box. Fox. Socks. Rocks. Locks.

Locked box.  Box locked. It all comes back to blocked.

Writer's block.  It happens sometimes. If you were hoping to get something out of this post, too bad...it's blocked.