Progeny
we ...
are strands ...
they, a strumming, resonant -
notes of an ambrosial
strain that tickles the tympans of
life and enlightenment ...
they are thistle on the breath of spring,
pappus of a bloom, passionate,
set for naught but fruitful
purchase -
ideality, their roots ...
tender tendrils wrapped 'round
dreams that know
no waking ...
seeds and songs let loose
from our hearts' deepest chambers,
with a boundless hope,
and an ache ...
unyielding.
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