Words Poem by Herman Hoyte

“I found a seed, lying in the dirt.
I scooped it up, tucked it in my shirt.
Walked on home thinking hard,
On what I’d found, to keep or discard?
‘At least’, I thought, ‘there is no harm
What if this single seed could start a farm?
And many more would multiply.
It’d be like seeds falling from the sky.’
And so the thought of planting, I entertained.
And the seed I’d brought, in my home, remained.

The seed sat on my desk.
And with my pen, I did my best
To write out, in full,
A description, how it was beautiful.

I observed, I pondered,
I dreamt and thought.
Of this little seed I’d brought
And how someday it may become a tree.
Grow so tall, provide shade for me.
Or
Maybe it’s a flower, and would bloom
Present bright color, fill the room
With happiness, warmth and peace.
And my lonely sorrow would quickly cease.
Then, quietly, in the back of my mind,
Come the thoughts, I try to give no time.
‘What if it is just a weed?
A dead prickly plant could come from that seed.
And, all your hope and efforts to make it grow
Would dash apart, that’d be a terrible blow.’

So I sit, eyes on the seed.
“It could work out”, my hopes would plead.
But I am crippled, by the thought,
That, if planted, the plant might rot.
Is it better to only sit and muse?
No sadness risked, nothing to lose?

Should I recline, submit to my fears
And go without knowing, safe for years?

But then my hopes perk up.
A little voice I can’t shut up.
Could you live with never knowing?
That seed could become the best thing growing?

Depressed and mad I shrink into my chair.
Why can’t I decide! This isn’t Fair!
Why can’t I stop this tumbling despair!
I must muster the courage to leave my home
Test out this new seed, observe what is grown.
But the fear of my hopes being turned down,
Keeps me curled in the corner, with a troubled frown.

I tug my hair, and chew my pen
Unable to act, as other men
Who have no trouble, speaking their mind.
Venturing out, growing a vine,
Smelling a flower, planting a tree.
And I sit crippled. What is wrong with me?

Enough! Enough! I am done!
I grab my hat, scoop up the seed and run.
Out the door, from my chair I’ve risen.
Shovel in hand, free from my mental prison.

And if an ending could be chose.
I would grow a stunning rose.
That flourished and bloomed brighter than the rest
And I’d live proudly, knowing I did my best.”…

…But… all jokes aside, no more fun.
All I just said, is easier writ, than done.

I fill my notebook with many words,
Of what to do or what to say,
But I sit curled in my chair, afraid.

Crippled with fear, and there I stay.
Waiting, praying, for that day
When the courage comes… Ah, the words I’ll say...