
Revision:
If only words would grow on vines,
I'd serve them up along these lines;
taste the crop that came to flower
and dine on prose from hour to hour.
Partake of leaves.
Partake of root.
I'd save the best
for last...
the fruit.
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Original
The seed of an idea as small as sand.
I want to grow at the end of my hand;
as if my arm were free to flower
some great prose hour to hour;
my fingers no more than a wonderland.
I place my hand to this clean page
and wait for it to behave a sage;
believing that it has some power,
until my fingers freeze, then cower;
proving themselves a dumb appendage.
That in my hand some phrase take root;
that it alone would bear the fruit,
not make of me some undergoer,
where perfect words to mind come slower;
then gladly would I be it`s prostitute.