Sifthing through a provocative

Line of thoughts unheeded.

Left with the residue, wasted.

Cast in the barrel of loose change.

Such is a thought left on a limb,

Hoping some slight wind may tip it.

And if it should fall, will it prosper?

Little ever do fall on fertile ground.

Who is to say that some day

This wanton thought will grow?

Many a poet has written on the wind,

Only to find it has passed him bye.