The Winnowing

These summer days
my mind is like a busy toddler,

fingers linger on ideas not mine to touch,
the mouth is parched for knowledge
resisting nothing sweet,

wanting comfort

wanting

babbling
babbling
babbling

the constant flow of day dreaming
in the depths of bones healing
from wounds where battles have worn
everything thin.

Redirect this path with the storming heart
clearing the horizon of all of the chatter –
from this constant distraction,
like a wind winnowing the plump seeds from the nothingness
before the force of life takes root in the richness of the earth.