We Poets Are Farmers Still

We poets are farmers still, ploughing our mind in the invisible field, whenever the mind makes the pen wield. Sowing the seeds of emotion, in the field of melancholy, we reap the expression of joy with our hearts happy and merry. Gardeners we are to our core, as we are happy to see our words bloom amidst the reverberation of “Encores”. Idioms, our fertilizers, simile and metaphors, the growth enhancers. The monsoon, the joy of spring, when in the winds of expression , our joy swings. Words bearing a new look, publicity reaping the best out of our joyous moods. Our alert mind, the scare crow, driving the birds of plagiarism away, helps the expression to bloom and grow. Again we wait for the next showers, hoping this time, the day will be ours. We then sow the time awaited seeds of expression, with the waves of time, the blooming showers. Their timed sprout is now, when you lovers of art, read it aloud and feel it in your heart.