The seeds emerge naked from gray, rough soil.
Though most will perish as grist of earth’s scheme
their compost holds kernels of mealy toil,
micro teams, tiny mules carrying molecule dreams
to clothe tender roots, as nosy trichomes graze
close to death’s yield to suckle hungrily at her teat,
laboring forth to perhaps claim a parcel of grace
or settle for more modest, weedy informality.
This war marches on. The drama rolls fresh
with each rising and falling of seasonal flesh.
I liked this very much…brought much of what is happening to me into focus…
A pleasure to meet you Garnet,
Minerva
I like this one. Very interesting, the perspective of a seed. tiny mules carrying molecule dreams — marvelous. I like the way you kept a balanced life/death sense about this, unsentimental.
I can so relate to this right now Darlin’… It’s lovely…
Minerva- I hope the seeds you found here helped.
moose- I love it when you stop by.
yemanja – I’m there with you, dear, all the way.
“In the shadow of a dying star
the seeds of love were sown…”
Thanks for the cuppa! Cherio, Mandi
Sigh… Thank you Garnet…!