Seeds

     The old man sits beneath the Truth Tree enjoying the laughter of children at play.  He watches a young one walk his way holding a book in her tiny hands and says, "Good morning, little one."  
     "Good morning, Sir. Would you like me to read a poem to you?" she asks with a smile. 
     "Why, yes, that would be wonderful! Come sit here on the rock with me," he says as he moves to make room for her.
     She sits and opens the book to a marked page, clears her throat, and begins to read, "I keep my thoughts in a basket and there I let them stay until I need to hear them again on a cold rainy day."
     "Very good, my child!" the old man exclaims and applauds her efforts.
     The child smiles and timidly whispers her thanks to him. She then looks up and asks seriously, "Sir, what are thoughts?"
     The old man is rendered somewhat speechless for a moment but then looks at the child and says, "Thoughts are like seeds, little one."
     "Seeds, Sir?" she asks, a bit bemused.
     "Think of the flowers and trees we admire. They come to us from seeds gifted to all by other flowers and other trees. Thoughts are gifted to us from memories, from songs in our heart, and from treasures tucked into our soul. They could be inspired by words spoken, the touch of wind, the sound of rain, or something we have seen that lingers within our spirit," he says softly but he knows this will not be enough to quench her thirst for answers.
     "What happens to our thoughts, Sir?" the little girl asks.
     "Well, sometimes they do not stay with us. They continue on to find where they truly belong.  They will come and go like scents upon a breeze. The Creator will guide them on their journeys. Other thoughts will take root within us just as the seedling of this mighty tree took root and grew. Think of seeds of thought as the beginning of an idea. If it is meant to be its roots will begin to grow. It will be nurtured by our spirit and our thirst for a dream.
     "Look at this tree. It has roots that grow into a mighty trunk, an idea. The trunk becomes branches, a vision. From the branches grow leaves that will fall and scatter, dreams to escape and find their reality," the old man says as his lays his hand upon the tree's trunk.
     "But what of the seeds, Sir?" she asks softly.
     "Ah, my little one, they become more thoughts," he replies.
     She looks at him and nods. He is not quite sure she understands just yet, but perhaps one day she will. She breaks the silence and asks, "Sir, can I read to you again on another day?"
     "Always, my child, always. You have made my day very special," he answers.
     "Thank you, Sir," she says as she rises, gives him a small hug, and skips away with book in hand. The old man sits for a moment enjoying this special memory. He rises and hears the breeze through the leaves above him. He looks skyward knowing the Creator feels the fullness of his heart. As if on cue a leaf drifts to the ground,  resting there briefly before a breeze catches it, and allows it to begin a new dream. The old man watches it and smiles.