Once upon a time, there was a seed and because it was only a seed, nobody cared to notice it. Thus, gripped by a sense of inferiority, the seed gave no importance to its existence.

Then one day, a wind picked him up – randomly or otherwise it didn’t know – and threw it mercilessly on an open field under the sweltering sun. He was confused. Why would anything do such a thing? But instead of any copasetic answers, it was provided with rain (in addition to sunlight); sometimes in drizzles and sometimes in torrents.

Meanwhile time flew and years later it saw a traveler sitting by his side. “Thank you God for this. I really needed some rest,” he heard the traveler say.

“What are you talking about?” The seed promptly asked. He thought the man was making fun of him. Sure, he had witnessed many people sitting by his side – more so in recent years – but no one ever spoke to him like that.

“Who is this?” The man was startled.

“This is me. The seed.”

“The seed?” The man looked at the giant tree. “Are you kidding me? You are no seed. You are a tree. A goliath of a tree!”

“Really?”

“Yes! Why else do you think people come here?”

“What do they come here for anyways?” Asked the seed.

“To feel your shade! Don’t tell me you didn’t know you had grown over time.”

A moment passed before the traveler’s words struck the chord of realization within him.

The seed, now a prolix tree, thought and smiled for the first time in his life. The years of relentless tortures by the sun and the rain finally made sense to him.

Author: Novoneel Chakraborty

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moral: sometimes we never see what we have grown into. Time does fly and we think of ourselves as we have always been while others are able to see what we have grown to become, sometimes this is good and sometimes not.

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Sawing thoughts …by Art~

to build with timber
one must cut wood
sawing for moments
while one stood

a thought see-saw
across my mind
of yesterdays
tasteful as aged wine

to read the grain
predicting the bow
for cutting the wood
releases tension grown

the push and pull
that life casts
like the surf
that comes in laps

To push a blade
with firm hand
minutes of labor
in working strands

Images of you
basking on a bed
sensually wanting
me in my head

a driving force
of pulling hard
back and forth
boards are scar’s

like our salty life
on sweet sugar days
the memories
linger then they fade

standing firm
a strong footed stance
just man and wood
doing a saw dust dance

soft moments
come flooding back
embedded in the grain
of our lives and tracks

hard wood or soft
it makes a difference
sandpaper smooth
becomes entranced

we shared our lives
back and forth
perhaps that’s why
I still carry the torch

drawing a line
placing the saw
cutting wood
that’s all

by Art~

 

may you build a better day, today

 

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