(Fill in the blank)

I want to dig
words from the blank earth
with my two hands
plunge into hearty loam
trade places
earthy loam
rich, ready to grow
Jax' beanstalk to the giant sky.

Someone said it's a gift
making words like a mental assembly line
like a factory wordker
canned laughs and empty boxes
waiting to be filled with hope.

That's what these words are:
hope. They're like sticks
you gather in the lee of tall trees
the fingers they shed when the world grew too heavy
to support new growth
and so you fetch them
bits of kindling to announce your pending fire
sometimes sputtering, smoky, timid
until your heart catches
and it burns up
love leaving like a smoke offering
to the silent muse whose outline
you can just, almost, make out in the haze.

When the flames douse themselves
when the words become ash
and cover up your heart
that's when I'll dig
with a spoon if necessary
water it with whatever I can find (you fill in the blank)
and wait.

Smoke becomes earth, eventually, doesn't it?
You fill in the blank.