Nobody ever mentions the fact that <br />Once-beating hearts now nourish the prairies grasses. <br />Refusing to take notice of this, I’m busily <br />Threading my fibers, splayed against the crossgrain- <br />Billions of patterns exist, and mine seems to be all my own: <br />But watering the roots, I discover deposits- <br />In the end it is so mixed up- who can tell what remains <br />Of the inate germ nature, and what sprang up <br />From scattered seed, as the wind was <br />Caressing the four corners of the compass? <br />We are blown up into the air and then raked into the mud. <br />If not devoured, we might become a great, steadfast beacon, <br />Or a small driven twig, or only the dead-end <br />Signpost on a road to a lost mine. <br />Waiting, hidden, you might wilt away too soon- <br />There is safety in the muck- nobody kicks you if you don’t <br />Stick up. In the mine, it is as if you are already dead; <br />Your heart will not nourish the sterile dust there, and the <br />Diamonds are too brilliant to notice your small shining.<br /><br />Patti Masterman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wind-as-gardener/
