The soul is dry and barren

Not a word grows, not a clause

Not a sentence that makes sense

The heart is filled with perished seeds

Memories of yester-years.

Lying in bed I see an alphabet

Sprout in the darkness

Words grow like leaves

A sapling reaches out

Perishes with the sun

Night after night seeds burst

Poems grow soft tendrils

And are nipped at dawn

Nothing grows to fullness

No flowers to wear

No seeds to sow

No joys no sorrows to harvest

In the absence of love.