Prophet and Loss

I have sown so often on stony paths
and harsh roadside ways where thistles
bloom in purple patches and weeds choke
the fertile soils, closing flowers down.

Who knows what cold winds blow when
new seeds are shuffled, then cast, like bread
upon water, into the mind’s frustrated furrows?

Will flowers flourish, or will they perish,
still-born, in the depths of their stony graves?

I do not know for I cannot read the runes
the wind scatters across the sky when it shuffles
clouds and scrawls shadow-writing on the land.

Careless, I cast out word-seeds, knowing full well
that many will perish. But I also know that one
or two will put down roots. Eventually, developing
shoots will nourish my labor’s burgeoning fruits.

Comment: There is no profit in being a prophet.