Poem By Michael Buhagiar
It starts with a seed, whose segments gather
A trust protecting the wealth of their ancestry
With promise of flowers and a soaring majesty
And fruits to ravish you, like any other;
—That falls in a desert, whose miles might smother
With still weight of air and the noon’s easy clarity.
Yet its God, staring hard, has sensed there Eternity
And, groping in blindness, it takes Him for mother.
Now its roots are foothills, and a breeze’s pass
MIght shatter that length; while its fruits are sparse
And brittle, and no moisture give or need.
Yet, sitting at its foot, a poet meditates,
And though he cast away the sterile seed
Its mortal flesh he loves, assimilates.