Man's passions and desires are the seeds that he plunges into the soil of his dreams. If planted too deep, they will be lost from the light of truth, left alone in darkness, trapped in a place where all he is able to see is his prison of soil, a tomb where he is the lone master, imposing onto himself the crown of self arrogance, garnished by his denial of fear.
And if his passions and desires are not planted deeply enough into his dream, they will become shallow rooted and misguided, and his yearnings could never support the weight of his aspirations, like promises that can never be fulfilled. and the beauty in his branches will tumble aimlessly to the ground, shattering his dream.
Praise the farmer whose callused hands meticulously sow his seed, and painstakingly cultivates the growth of his passions and desires.
But his pain is only to be his labor of love, as his dream manifests into a tree that is strong, and whose fruit can be trusted to be sweet, and will feed the hungry mouths of those who love him, and those who have yet to learn to farm.
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
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