Seeds In Our Hands
There are small seeds
And mighty oaks.
Tender shoots
And weathered bark.
Fragile buds
And blooming gardens.
When we tend to the soil,
Or water the roots?
Nurturing growth.
We never say
This seedling matters.
That one does not.
We plant
And we tend.
We shelter
And we know.
THEY ALL NEED CARE.
Yet somehow,
When we look
At the faces in our classrooms.
Where dreams are now formed.
Where futures wait,
We forget.
Some get sunshine,
Others shadow.
Some have rich soil,
Others are stones.
Don't we see?
Each mind
A garden
Waiting.
Each question
A seed
We plant
Or let's wither.
Each word we speak
Rain
Or drought?
Growing hearts.
Aren't we?
The gardeners
Of tomorrow,
Holding us in our hands
The tender roots
Of every child?
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