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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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