Fresh blood, fresh ground.
Fresh ears and different hearts
Where words, buried, move without a sound.
Elsewhere they lie flat, dying,
On the shut-off surface,
Or beaten over, replaced by a lifelike thing
Or a gasping pursuit,
Watched over with sadness.
Call: “Down, deep,
Push out your thirsty feet
Find soil that’s not dust
Spread an inch, take a hold.
Take no prisoners, use all as fuel
As you climb into the glorious air
To the glorious sun.”
Take passenger mineral and jetty the rest
Where does it move? Your shape fills out - how?
And where will it grow next season?
Up, push up, and stretch an arm out
- captivated by the open way above.
Grow pleasing in service, seeing fruit bud and scatter out,
Walking in sower-like love.
I'm not sure I'm 100% happy with this poem, yet (eg. last stanza) but try reading it out loud to get a feel for the sense of excitement I wanted to create about the growth of the "word" from the Matthew 13/Mark 4 parable.