Inner Worlds

In my heart the soil is fertile
so in need of being planted,
to grow a harvest from every seed
sprouting in the mind
as the buds of thoughts.

But if it doesn’t get enough rain
from the clouds of love,
if that throbbing land within
becomes a dry and barren ground,
what might have blossomed
into something truly beautiful,
able to nourish so many others
merely sits as desert.

When it is brittle and ready to combust
from the tumbleweeds of resentment,
its heat easily ignites into an inferno of rage,
burning like a wildfire across other territory.

Carried by the gusts exhaled from the lips,
blowing their anger in such intense flames,
scorching what grows in another’s fields.

But limbs of the trees set ablaze
that were grown by care and inspiration
can produce a light that guides
enabling some to follow its illumination
through any blast of breeze,
which gusts a storm into one’s day,
revealing the wells that refresh
and the landscapes
offering seasons of changes
ever enriching life.