by Elizabeth Challinor

They don't spread secrets

They grow truths

Without a care

They don't ask us to look

We are the ones

Who choose to stare

Longingly through the windows of our quiet despair

We dwell on branches, leaves

Open sky

In search of inspiration

We chastise ourselves

For lack of imagination

Bow our heads

And start to dig

Throwing up earth, stones, twigs

A grave

From the moist darkness of our rooted yearnings

An open hand expands

Photo by José Lança

Elizabeth Challinor