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.