Over a month after
the nasturtium seeds were planted,
the last four seedlings begin to push
their pale green elbows above the soil,
as if stretching before they leap.
If they were children, I might chastise them
for taking so long. As it is,
I celebrate them, bend over
to whisper encouragement.
You can do it, I say to the valiant stems.
Some mornings, when the sun
has just begun to slip
into my room, I swear
the sun says the same thing to me
as I try to hide beneath the sheets.
You can do it, the light seems to say.
It does not mention, not even once,
all the darkness it has traveled through
just to arrive at this window, this morning,
so that it might warm my elbows,
suggest there is so much more light to be found.