“I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth.” – William Faulkner, writer & Nobel Prize winner
Seeds
All morning, a pocket full of seeds— morning glories from Zimbabwe, moon flowers from China, the Cosmos of Tanzania, Japanese trowel opening this ground, and on the cedar bench, cha preto, Brazilian black tea steaming. This hill of mud and mulch holds all my pretty pebbles hauled from the mouth of the Mad River and hours kneeling at Agate Beach, the occasional fossil moved with me from Pennsylvania, Washington, old oceans turned stone, the impression of shells beside shells of limpets and periwinkles brought home from Fiji. A global garden here. The hands of strangers touched each seed, so every blossom will bear a sweetness, the unmet life shadowing each interior, the tongues of hummingbirds back from Mexico, tongues thin as pins pricking deep, will shine, a brief blur, licking.
