To a stranger, to a reader, I write—
The honor of not being known,
Yet heard like the roaring thunder
clipping the face of truth with pure
unknown tunes loved before sung;
mere words on paper have long
covered an iron bar with rust—
you keep reaching up outside your door
waiting for a keen eye to see beyond
the smeared surface right into the core.

All it takes to sow a field is one seed;
one from me and one from you—
voices doubling like horns and bassoons
reaching the ether beyond the cozy air;
to walk the mile that nobody walked,
never a second worry if you’ll be there;
you are already ahead of everyone,
you are already ahead of yourself—
the finish line is the reach of your arm,
and every day a new race, one more time.

They say that words are dead
the very moment they are said,
but to be dead, first, you have to be alive;
not waiting in fear in a dark cocoon
for the world to tell you who you are—
you are conducting this very orchestra;
a symphony that beats the very heart
of people’s gears and numbers and null;
you write today, take a seed and sow—
in your own tree are the seeds of tomorrow.