Seeds

Those seeds you plant are positively primitive, almost nothing at all. You can eat them from the palm of your soulful hand. You can look at them, greedily hide them - close them up in your tight fist. Imprisoned, not by the earth, not buried in the moist dark, but in a wad. You open up your wallet-hand to count the seedlings, grind them up in worrying. Notice those worries don’t disappear- nothing magical about these beans. You can’t climb its vine - no problem giants, nor insects, no clipping, nor tenderness. No golden eggs nor melodic harp, no goose - no fowl. Positively primitive, your thoughts, that go no further than your hand or tongue.

Those seeds scattered to the birds, for the birds, for toes to trot, spoiled brats of happenstance. Scattered to be spat upon by hapless storms, burnt to a crisp in nakedness. Those orphan seeds have no home to call their own, no future children…why were they born?

O tender seeds of glory in childlike hands, soft, resilient. There’s a plan for each speck. Wow! There’s a God who cares for the minute. A babe kisses the ground with its knees, uses a humble trowel to dig - knows the depth, beads of sweat, sighs in the petrichor. She digs one hole. He digs ninety-nine more. He drops a solitary seed into a hole. She drops ninety-nine more. The babe waters and unsparingly invites the sun. The sentinel matures, waits for the first shoot. O faith in the root, its source thirsty for a drink and warmth.

Seeds are sown. Seeds are sown. Now we wait. Now we wait. Will we reap one hundred percent? The cost was great. Weeds amidst the planting cleared. The saints have risen from each grave. Beauty from ashes, each flower shines in the hereafter.

1/12/2022

flowerimageryprose

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