Every object carries a world.
Books fill my house, floor to ceiling, remaining empty until they're read.
I devour a story a day but the stacks grow higher.
Husks surround me, beckoning,
"Make me real!"
Calling for attention like corn stalks that have grown too tall.
I give them all away,
Hoping for fertile minds,
Toiling against the blindness of strangers,
Taking comfort in a future crop.
A mere farmer, who listens when the wind speaks.
Sometimes I talk back,
Never saying the right charm to control the weather.
I am buffeted by faceless storms,
But the seedlings remain safe.
My failings won't stop this rain.
These worlds belong in someone else's hands now.