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We leave the womb, 
that place of warm safe-keeping,
and arrive to face our would-be lives
with nothing but a body and 
a landscape, ready-made 
but needing to be seeded
It's a pristine, faintly gleaming table of the mind.

Seeds of knowledge sown,
like clockwork, quickly grow,
nourished by the light 
or even by mere shadows of examples
and fostered by a daily rain of practice.
Saplings soon arise in normal, fertile minds.
How the woodland shines when it’s enlightened!

Time passes. The trees of each soul’s forest
get taller; some get statelier. . .but all get old.
What mystery it is to me why some
who wish to keep their woodland strong
are met with great misfortune.
A parasite attacks, and one by one,
their trees succumb.
Soon each mind of these unfortunate souls
regresses to a time when
it was but a primal vacant landscape 
with this exception. . . 
 the terrain is only rocky barren soil.
I wonder if they see in their last earthly moments
the glimmer of 
a brand new gleam
on their horizon.

June 29, 2020 for
Strand Completely New (3) Any Theme Any Form Poetry Contest

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