When a new book of poems enters the world there is no sound. No parade. Poems don't get parades. Maybe something soft like spring rain. But far from view there is a seed that imperceptibly starts to sprout inside us.
@SeanLemonhead
when an idea meets an idea they proceate and just like children, potentially move away to become their own being. This is what is so wonderful about being a seed; the source may be known but the outcome as unknown as how much rain will fall.