Nothing sticks really except the sticky bits, toffee paper golden and waxed.
Not so much that it doesn't stick, lots of it sticks but so little of it grows and that's the problem.
What's the problem?
It doesn't grow.
What doesn't grow?
That which comes on the wind.
That which is gifted to you?
Yes, that which is gifted to me.
How is it nurtured and encouraged, how do you tend it and what are your expectations of it?
Perhaps I hadn't thought that way, as if those things were possible. Perhaps I thought the gift came whole and ready made, honed and complete not to be picked and poked with. Something complete beautiful and whole.
What else is like that, in no need of shaping and nurture?
Nothing of which I know except that which grows wild and that which arises like a cloud billowing and fading in the clear blue sky.
That is so.