What will it become?
What will grow from this?
These few words scattered across the page. A hope they will grow into something. A hope they will take shape and form that will grow on down the page into something else, something that goes beyond mere marks on the page. Something that grows deeper and further than the words themselves, entangling their shoots and their roots around meaning and resonance. Taking the words beyond themselves into realms previously left to the dust and desert of those unexplored lands that lie beyond what we know.
This garden of words grows out from here, page by page, plot by plot, turning more of what was once the barren whiteness of the empty page into meaning and into possibility.
The words grow where they will; this tired old gardener no longer has plans and dreams. He no longer hopes for the perfect garden laid out in plans and principles. Nowadays, he just casts the word seeds out on whatever plain whiteness of the page he can find, curious himself to see what will grow. He has grown tired of plans, schemes, and those who think they know how a garden should be cultivated.
Sometimes the words are enough by themselves.
Meaning will grow along with the words, and the words themselves are often purpose enough. A few scattered words can grow into a dream, or into a nightmare. The words can grow into what was and into what could never be. The word themselves don’t care. The words themselves have no purpose, no manifesto. They are not propaganda.
The words are too precious to waste on mere politics. The words should not grow into the polluted ground of manifestos, of schemes, of agendas, of plans and projects. That should be left to the weeds, left to lie fallow until those words left there start to grow real meaning again.
There are places out there where the real words can still grow, places out beyond these gardens, especially the haphazardly cultivated ones like this.
There are places, down by the riverbank. There the only sounds are birdsong and the water laughing at its own jokes as it stumbles over the stones. In those places, a few words can be found, growing wild growing free. Wild words not contaminated, not polluted, twisted out of shape by those who would misuse them and force them to grow their meanings in ways they were not meant to.
On those wind-blown hillsides where the sheep wander, words too can be found sheltering in amongst the rocks and stones, torn by the wind. But those words will have meaning growing amongst them too, like the words up high on the cliff top, watching the sea and under the cries of the gulls. Words left there by the silenced voices of those who watched for their men to come home from the sea.
There were words too, growing amongst the gravestones in the long grass by the untended graves.
There are words, soft words, some left unspoken too up here in this small bedroom under the eaves where we lie together as I listen to your sleeping breath and wonder what words I’ll plant later today.