Before thought, the feel comes in.
The faint and surge of familiarity come together.
I can feel it, all the way to my bones.
But I have no way of survey to name it.
It is like a greenhouse environment
where thought is sown and grows.
I seem to be the only gardener there.
And I somehow am driven by the joy
to live for the harvest.
Thoughts that have grown up into words
become the language as the harvest.
It is there that the festivals of conversation
can be exchanged and regarded to happen.
All the green houses of others
as well as myself remain distant and invisible
as is, each to his or her own, brought to the market.
The festivals continue to happen on a daily basis.
There is huge variety,
answering to individuals’ wants and needs.
They become the spoken-abouts.
The feasts themselves are often the exchanges
of goods and services mindfully attended.
For the most part, we always meet
away from the original pre-thought fields.
That terrain and those locations are close to the heart
and hardly ever on public display.
It is the forever land of pre-thought
and we are all its residents.
We are, of course, the heartland and its feel . . .