The River and the Words

What is this that begins here? Something grows from these words we plant in this soil. Something comes from these notions that haunt our minds as we walk these paths. Something turns in the shadows and creeps away back into the darkness that bred it. Out here, we are in the sunlight and there is warm new green grass underneath us as we look up into skies that are forever blue and the few clouds hang there as if only to add a touch of decoration.

The river flows on, but we remain here; tending these words that we planted in the soft soil, waiting for them to grow into something beyond themselves. For words can take root in this soft soil of the imagination and grow up and out into something far beyond what we first planted back in those early days.

Of course, we must tend to the growing words as they grow and spread across this blank page where we planted them, watering them with imagination and thinning out those words that could choke the rest, leaving little more than a few desultory paragraphs that fade away into silence on the edges of this garden we have made.

Soon though these words will have taken over, so what was once bare barren ground devoid of thought and imagination and possibility is filled with verdant thriving words that go on for paragraph after paragraph, page after page all down along the banks of that flowing river.