Walk this grove—not mine, not yours, but ours.

Words, the elements that make up the soil,

Must be plowed and fertile if we want flowers

And other treasures to reward our toil.

The cold approach, the neglected read

Won’t give the words the thought they need.

Speak the thoughts—your thoughts also may be ours;

What you provide might sprout the stubborn seed

Which, dry, the worm or errant squirrel devours,

Feeding one where hundreds may have come to feed.

The ones who fear to offer what they think

Deprive the roots of needful food and drink.

Give heed to all the brave whose thoughts are poured

Like rainfall on the growing knowledge base,

And be the sun whose energy is stored

And added to, and whose light fills the space

Where only dark and unquenched wonder stood,

But now harbors a lush, fruit-bearing wood.