The Meditated

As I stroke the canvas with a brush,
I paint the picture in my mind
of a future, and there is no rush;
I see it, but as if I was blind --
It is not here yet.

As I pour water to the arid ground,
I have little left to quench my thirst.
The drying flower will come around
and blossom; its needs come first --
I need to provide.

As I gently swipe to remove the dust
off volumes human knowledge has filled,
I silently wonder if I can trust
the wisdom we so ardently build --
Uncertainty wakes.

As I plant the seeds the ground will grow,
I do not stop to think and waver
in my belief that the fruits will show
how caring and risks make one braver --
It is hope that seeds.

As I lay down and bask in the sun,
the warmth of light it emanates
reminds me of pain, pleasure, sorrow and fun
that still in the future awaits --
But I crave the glow.