The seed of consumerism
Is greed.
A need to bleed green,
A hunger for what’s seen.
But I want creation,
Not taking.
I want the gift of making,
Hands baking amor and aroma,
Fingers shaping color and cloth,
Tunes carving sound and space,
Words finding their place on a page,
A laugh rising where silence once lived.
Creation asks for presence,
Not possession.
The ingredients become a story,
The blank page becomes a book,
The melody becomes an overture,
Because your craft gives without emptying,
It multiplies when shared.
This is wealth that doesn’t hoard,
It teaches us how to leave something
Still alive in others’ souls.
well said -- our tradition is to write stories for each other... Those become memorable, saved for years...
It's true: We weave threads and words because they remain when we do not.