On the Birth of Poetry

Like a tiny seedling from a mighty pine tree, it sat fallow for years, on the forest floor, waiting for that majestic fire to set it free.

He wondered where it came from, the poetry, never a desire of his was it. This magic, this gift from God.  It sat silent, for years at the center of his soul, bursting forth at that great fire, the coming death of the one he loved and adored.

The first one came sitting on the back porch of their home. The family was sitting in the back, around the fire. Enjoying a laugh or two. He struggled to see how he fit, in their world.  At work was he always, seeking the funds to keep them afloat.

The gardner was returning joy to the ones, who's laughter he had not heard, in years. It was good to hear her laugh. The cancer would consume her soon but the children would be left with the memories from the gardner.  He had come to bring the cure, but joy supplied he also. 

You came with your gift them. Laying fallow at the center of his soul.  It consoled him, supplied the strength to continue.  Years it would take to find his place, in their lives again.  The anger, and guilt and shame, came out in the poetry. First to Facebook and then to select close friends.  Then to the one he loved. This then to return to intimacy long lost. He then thankful for your discovery of the poetry.