Wild Wheat

Rumination on the challenge of sharing the beauty we conceive with others

I breathed my heart into a yearning seed, 

both calm and sure of Nature's need,

hoped a thing of beauty there would grow.

Struggle - prove life's shoots of yearning,

creation's flame - with constance burning,

sure but slow.

Rootlike growing, painful going deep below, 

creations slough,

to raise my beauty high I’d wish.

Bourne at last the fruits of Eden,

pray not heathen,

something dish.

Not fairies, jinns, nor elves or daemons,

rhymes or reasons,

brought my rose.

The fates were cast I must divine,

forever mine,

there wild wheat grows.

Rikkevi Rue © 2013-2024

Author's Note

All reviews and comments are welcome, especially any emotional response evoked!