| Spiritual Fiction posted November 21, 2019 |
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340 Words Prose written with rhyme.
A Solitary Sprig
by Mystic Angel 7777
Dying Houseplant Contest Winner
One morning on my walk about, the one I take ‘fore sun comes out. I spied a withered little sprig, not big enough to be a twig.
It must have been a Christmas gift that someone carelessly threw out. Outlived its use for table top, into the garbage it was dropped.
My heart was touched, it looked so sad. I sensed it must feel very bad. Neglected and alone like those that have no family, no safe home.
I knelt beside it, said a prayer and that’s when God spoke to me there. He told me that to spare this life would be a willing sacrifice. He said it was a worthy task and well within my feeble grasp.
I gently freed it from the trash and wrapped it in my scarf’s warm cache. As we began the journey back, I told it of our planned attack. I’d take care of its simple needs, if it would simply thrive for me.
Once home, the healing did commence. Its long life would be recompense for all the wrongs that many do. By saving it, we’d save them too.
I kept it in an ornate pot, placed within a sunny spot. I fed and watered every day and it grew stronger as I prayed. Its new resilience stirred of hope. If it could do it, all could cope. I never left it to forget that God was why our paths had met.
Each morning I would read it works from Whitman, Thoreau, Yates; whispering encouragement on how to alter fate.
Each evening I would play the tunes that heaven’s heart composed. And before bed, we’d bow our heads when reading lovely Psalms.
As time went by it grew so strong folks marveled at its sight. I think it truly understood that with its growth, good blossomed too.
It now stands proudly in the yard, a beacon to the lost. It wears its Christmas glow year round, a symbol of its worth; and many from its branches bound to heaven from this earth.
One morning on my walk about, the one I take ‘fore sun comes out. I spied a withered little sprig, not big enough to be a twig.
It must have been a Christmas gift that someone carelessly threw out. Outlived its use for table top, into the garbage it was dropped.
My heart was touched, it looked so sad. I sensed it must feel very bad. Neglected and alone like those that have no family, no safe home.
I knelt beside it, said a prayer and that’s when God spoke to me there. He told me that to spare this life would be a willing sacrifice. He said it was a worthy task and well within my feeble grasp.
I gently freed it from the trash and wrapped it in my scarf’s warm cache. As we began the journey back, I told it of our planned attack. I’d take care of its simple needs, if it would simply thrive for me.
Once home, the healing did commence. Its long life would be recompense for all the wrongs that many do. By saving it, we’d save them too.
I kept it in an ornate pot, placed within a sunny spot. I fed and watered every day and it grew stronger as I prayed. Its new resilience stirred of hope. If it could do it, all could cope. I never left it to forget that God was why our paths had met.
Each morning I would read it works from Whitman, Thoreau, Yates; whispering encouragement on how to alter fate.
Each evening I would play the tunes that heaven’s heart composed. And before bed, we’d bow our heads when reading lovely Psalms.
As time went by it grew so strong folks marveled at its sight. I think it truly understood that with its growth, good blossomed too.
It now stands proudly in the yard, a beacon to the lost. It wears its Christmas glow year round, a symbol of its worth; and many from its branches bound to heaven from this earth.
It must have been a Christmas gift that someone carelessly threw out. Outlived its use for table top, into the garbage it was dropped.
My heart was touched, it looked so sad. I sensed it must feel very bad. Neglected and alone like those that have no family, no safe home.
I knelt beside it, said a prayer and that’s when God spoke to me there. He told me that to spare this life would be a willing sacrifice. He said it was a worthy task and well within my feeble grasp.
I gently freed it from the trash and wrapped it in my scarf’s warm cache. As we began the journey back, I told it of our planned attack. I’d take care of its simple needs, if it would simply thrive for me.
Once home, the healing did commence. Its long life would be recompense for all the wrongs that many do. By saving it, we’d save them too.
I kept it in an ornate pot, placed within a sunny spot. I fed and watered every day and it grew stronger as I prayed. Its new resilience stirred of hope. If it could do it, all could cope. I never left it to forget that God was why our paths had met.
Each morning I would read it works from Whitman, Thoreau, Yates; whispering encouragement on how to alter fate.
Each evening I would play the tunes that heaven’s heart composed. And before bed, we’d bow our heads when reading lovely Psalms.
As time went by it grew so strong folks marveled at its sight. I think it truly understood that with its growth, good blossomed too.
It now stands proudly in the yard, a beacon to the lost. It wears its Christmas glow year round, a symbol of its worth; and many from its branches bound to heaven from this earth.
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Writing Prompt A houseplant is dying. Tell it why it needs to live. |
Dying Houseplant Contest Winner |
 Recognized |
#154 2019 |
I wrote it in a way that works for either genre (Poetry or Prose) since none was specified in the contest requirements.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. 
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