Once, God did whisper to a weed
hidden from the sun,
that it was more than brush and seed
and when His talk was done,
the weed did flower, small and bright
for He knew poets need them.
Still, flowers born from those who write
are weeds when others read them.
So, I will take my camera out,
and search among the people
for bits to see and words to shout
sans pulpit, and no steeple
for God did place this in my heart
to serve as an example
that flowers born from those who pray
still bloom when critics trample.