breath of beadality

If words were like beads,
strung on narrow reeds,
I would plant bead seeds,
hoping they would sprout.
Then through the garden ramble,
along each row I’d amble,
hunting with a candle,
for the perfect bead.
Except on most days,
I’d resort to other ways,
plucking beans and maize,
their beauty leaving me amazed.
Stringing up odd feed,
and here and there a weed,
whatever the string needs,
or threading beads who plead.
It is not my mind which guides,
unable to pick or choose sides,
set aside my will,
unless I want swill.
I merely garden what wind needs,
cultivating wild beads and reeds,
witness and see where it leads,
threading all the gems and weeds.

About Brad Werner

Technical Evangelist
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