Seeds

by afghanacid
(London, United Kingdom)

She keeps them in a wooden box
inside a leather purse,
the seeds to sow inside my head,
to grow another verse.
I might have caught my train I thought,
if it at the station stopped,
I’d be dreaming with my muse,
instead my thoughts are lopped.
Rushing past my muse she goes,
sitting on my train of thought,
taking with the seed she sows,
idea’s that for me she brought.
Safely in a leather pouch
the seeds hang from her shoulder,
ideas tend to resonate with time
as seeds get older.