The Flourishing Aspiration

It was silent except for the constant whispers,

they weren't malignant,

nor were they shy or vicious,

but comforting and encouraging,

always a gentle push from behind,

yet obscured from their own dose of kindness,

heavy boulders in their fatigued hands,

weighed recounts conspicuous on their worn faces,

tales of times astray and neglected occasions,

all transparent in their sincere expression,

although wistful of better days,

they share their libretto to any attentive apprentice,

a sanguine future to any with a receptive ear,

if not a guide to avoid the blunder of those contrite murmurs,

then as simple advice for a considerate soul,

in need for a wholehearted Spring.