Creative Challenge 256 ~ Natural

With the planting of a seed

So begins a thing naturally

Small beginnings like the creep of moss on rock

Grow it in a gradual bloom of green fingers

Until less rock and more breathing thing

Its life curls and climbs

Organic in spirit

To its deepest root

While the days play gardener

One soul bears fruit and

Another blossoms

Feeding the feather tongues and bellies

Of winged creatures in their quest

For honey.

Natural as the curves sculpted

In sand and wood by wind

And stroking waves

Two find a purpose in existence

Entwined inextricably

Exposed to the elements and

Yet enduring rooted deep upon stone.

Human endeavor cannot conceive what

Is birthed by fragile seed and

Cannot reproduce what unearthly forces

Cause to grow

Permitted only to watch

Nurture and wonder

At the fertility of love.

Link to Challenge: http://challengingthecreative.blogspot.com.au/

The Dream ~ Inspired by Henri Rousseau

Neither rain nor heat nor wind were as faithful as Surien. After each day’s toil, he laid down the rags of a labourer and took up the mantle of a musician. He played his flute well. He played every day, practising his art with the patience of a craftsman whittling away at imperfection. The notes he drew from it were like tendrils; smoke rising from his pipe of life. As he blew into the dark tube, his breath stirred the passions he had nurtured with the purity of new melodies.

Those who lived within earshot inhaled his musical concoctions at day’s end, the mayor’s daughter among them. She was beautiful and bored, longing for the day when she could leave that dirty town for the life of films in some fast shiny city. She lay listless on her divan, listening to the piper’s wordless tales. The notes came as bright birds and warm furs, settling around her as the atmosphere grew lush with the music.

Surien was lonely. He dreamed also. His fingers played the longings of his soul to be larger than it was. He imagined he was speaking to the giver of dreams, and that his sounds were simple prayers asking for more than he dared hope to gain. He was glad that no-one complained about his flute practice.

One day, an important black car came to that dusty corner of town. The mayor’s daughter looked down from her window and squealed with delight, rushing to pack her suitcases for her trip to stardom. But the car had come to bear away the musician, taking him far off to an unknown but hopeful future. She watched him go, carrying nothing but his flute case and a canvas sack, and the collective dreams of his listeners.