This is how you want it. Soft. Gentle.
A hint of color always on the horizon.
A hint of light. A whisper. And then,
You believe in the power of whispering.
Mostly, it has served you well.
A nudge. A smattering of truth.
No clubs needed, as long as you are patient.
That’s the secret, patience,
a thing that grows harder to come by
as you age.
You grow increasingly ready to shout,
to rant, to wave your arms like a madman,
to get attention
so you can again, whisper.
That is what happens when loud hate
rises like Kudzu in July,
and you, with your single song
of love, loses ground. feels surrounded,
wonders what value whispering has,
what has it touched, who,
what difference it makes.
But then, one soul reminds you.
And then another, and you realize
your job is not that of an avenging angel,
but that of a simple farmer,
preparing the soil, season after season,
singing your whispersong,
“Grow, sweet children. Grow.”
About this poem
Inspired by discussions at church services this morning and the painting that is the picture. It’s one of mine, entitled “Hope”.