The Prize

She knew that the whole world misunderstood her,

Her very being, was enigmatic,

Where the path lay muddy

Her footsteps lay seeds for flowers

That all the tears and trials of mankind

would rain upon and wash away

Hope lay deep within the mud

that time and sunlight favoured

and up there sprung a tree in the garden of God

from whom the dust of thought brought forth

the first humanity

like new anjels rising innocent and naïve

thrust by that creative hand unto

this cruel and unforgiving place

Along the journey

She spread carpets of fertility

Where those who met and mused upon her

would dig deeply into their creative spirits

And find their worth

upon such precious gold

to flower naturally

beholding their Own Prize

It is the anjel who looks upon the scene

And delivers an alternate message

She is an oracle by whom the

Mud is made fecund

Her recognition and acknowledgement

Given in her silence, in her departure

and the people had felt

and won them Selves

Their Own Award

~ABrown 2003