With a handful of the blackest soil,
The remnants of the years’ decay,
I filled a pot and drilled some holes
With my index finger, poured
Dusty seeds into a hollowed palm,
Laid each husk into its pit,
Pressed back the dirt and waited.
Daily I watered them and waited,
Faithfully checked my little garden,
Sheltered it from frost and heat,
But each day the same - nothing -
Even after thirty days of watching;
I began to doubt my silent scions
would end their isolation. Waiting,
I have learned to seek small gifts:
Morning light that greets my eyes,
A leaf that dances on a breeze,
The time that lies beyond despair;
Thirty-two days after planting,
A tiny pair of bright, green blades
Had pushed aside a pebble, strained
Their way up through the earth,
As if hands had lifted to the heavens.
By David Canning
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