Posts Tagged ‘seeds’


Piercing the softest sweater I own
are dozens of thin black seeds,
needle-sharp and needle-stiff.
Their purpose: to spread.
They prick, they lance, they jab, they spear.
They refuse to be ignored.
It took only seconds for them to attach,
but to extricate them?
Today, again, I was reminded
how I do not wish
to be a carrier of sharp things.
I do not wish to sow what is prickly,
do not want to propagate
what might bring pain to someone else.
The world continues to teach me,
Be soft. Spread kindness, only kindness.
That is the voice I most wish to hear.
I pull the dark seeds from the fabric.
I place them where they will never take root.
The night air kisses my skin where they were.

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The Truth



Inside the bright words

there are other words

that want to be said—

small words

in dark shells.


It reminds me

of the sunflowers

that grew in the fall—

how we loved them

for their golden petals,


but they were true

to the small dark seeds

that grew them,

to the small dark seeds

they grew.




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There are darknesses in me,

places I would disregard.

Is it any wonder every year

I plant thousands of tiny seeds

and then wander the garden,

rooting for each as overnightly

they put up rows of tiny leaves.

How easily I forget what is possible.



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Reading seed catalogs

on an eight degree morning,

how improbable they look,

those royal chantenay carrots,

those pink seashell cosmos,

those bright sugar snap peas,

so greenly dangling.

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so beautiful, these seeds—

still learning to appreciate them

not for what they will become

but for the intricate

wonders they are


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More Bloom, More Bloom



I can’t wait until they die

my daughter says to the marigolds,

a wild joy grows on her face,

because then, she says,

I can pull them apart

and spread seeds

all over the place.

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Before the planting

of the seeds,

the preparation

to plant the seeds—

too soon for the soil,

of course, but

here, the hands

of the planter.

Rose milk lotion. Rest.

The time for verbs,


These long nights,

the time for dreams.

Out of darkness,


unstoppable budding,

sweet frolicsome riots

of soft and feral pink.

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the seed company sends their catalog

with 162 full-color pages of vegetables ready


to harvest. From snap peas and bush beans

to shallots and quinoa, plus every shape


and curl of leafy green—red ursa, red ruffled,

red Russian, Bolshoi. This is the same night


my son asks me as he falls asleep to explain

the difference between science and religion.


One, I say, is based on fact. The other,

I say, is based on faith. Though tonight,


as the temperature falls below ten,

and I regard the carrots, dark orange


and almost glowing off of page 29,

I begin to wonder how different


the two really are. I notice how the promise

of a slow-bolting, scab resistant


varietal sounds like a psalm I love—

the Lord, it says, will keep you from all harm—


and I look at the Royal Chatenays

and the Yaya Nantes and say out loud


to the dark kitchen windows and

to the cold winter air, I believe, I believe.

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