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Poet by Design by Patricia Joan Polhans When I became a poet, Designed in humility, The Mighty hand of God Came and laid this gift on me. The package I did not know Nor did I recognize, No beautifully tied ribbon For it was in a disguise! It had no decorated paper Nor an ornamental bow. Just a weakened, withered tree, A root that did not grow. I was but a shriveled plant. No fruit could e'er be found, An unattractive branch, Just a twig upon the ground. God began to prune each branch As painful as it became So the withered tree would grow And bring glory to his name. For the tree that bares no fruit Would be thrown into a fire For there would be no purpose As an unproductive writer. It took tender loving care And fertilization to sprout But buds began to appear And poetry began to shout! Then, slowly a poet emerged From the dry, withered remains. A total resurrection from The twig that had no gain. And as the tree 'gan to mature And blossoms began to grow He placed it on a pedestal For all the world to know. He had given it a purpose And a doctorate degree For it was not enough Just to prune the withered tree. He spoke life into the branches They will never be the same. This dry twig now has a purpose And the Father is to blame. There, underneath the branches Grew fruit of various kinds Producing a handmade poet, A poet by his design. "He that has begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of your redemption." Philippians 1:6 |
Please contact Patricia Joan Polhans at "polhanspatricia@yahoo.com" to request permission to use this poem.