Plow the Field

Learning to art

Is like tending a thistled field.

Until you plow, it chokes its fruit.

But thorns scratch

And catch

And prick.

So be scratched,

And caught,

And pricked,

Lest the field dry up

And naught but dust remains.

On “Write”

Remove the wide “w,” and you have either “rite,” like a fraternity’s yearly hazing, or “rote,” as in high school homework. Indeed, we have witnessed a coup d’état. Western schools have usurped Frost and Crane, profiting from their imprisonment and flogging their children into submission. They give us pickaxes instead of pens and imprison us in a mine of expedience and efficiency. We need a headlamp to lead us in sojourn, so that upon surfacing we might inhale crisp air. Perhaps then we can widen ourselves and even the world, itself.

Too much?