The watcher waters, waits
for seeds to leaf in two, then four.
The quickest end
to this green vigil
is to plant a few rows more.
I wonder,
as I wander
through this furrowed, dirty sea,
How slow
seem I to grow
the seeds planted in me?
'Tis the Season
It's That Feeling
Taking Risks
Writing a book seems to me a fairly risky venture. I suppose a musician could blame a faulty instrument for a poor performance. A carpenter could blame his tools. Writers can only blame themselves, for every page is a product of their imagination. If I begin this story, I must finish it, if only to prove to everyone I told about it that I could actually complete what I claim to be capable of. But even if I finish... what if it isn't well-received? What if publishers reject the manuscript, again and again?
