returning to seed

April 3, 2007

I’m going down.
I’m going under.
Returning to soil,
returning to seed.
I don’t know where I’ve been,
but it is not here where I belong.
So, I will sleep now and dream of tomorrow,
dream of sun and rain.
I will wake-up and make a garden.
That is what I will do,
wake-up and make a garden.
I will plant the seed of us at the foot of the maple tree,
between the crowning peonies and the silent Buddha.

The long winter’s embers
now ash and cinder,
sit in a cold stove…
waiting to be worked into the soil.

From the kitchen window I watch,
for the unfurling of the magnolia blossoms
and the robin’s Hop! Hop! Hop!
The crocuses have come.
Soon, the forsythia will be a wall of canary
and the scent of purple lilac will fill the dream room.

On the branch of the wild pear tree
there sits a spangled starling.
Each morning I watch for him.
With the sun he comes with the gift of song.
In the breath that moves
through a wooden flute,
in the sigh of the strings of a dilruba,
in the lament of a spanish guitar…
I remember who I am
here in the soil,
here in the seed asleep
dreaming of tomorrow,
dreaming of sun and rain.
I will wake-up and make a garden.
That is what I will do,
wake-up and make a garden.
I will plant the seed of us
with the ash of a long winter
at the foot of the maple tree.
And in an exhale, I will let it all go…
and begin anew.

It is happening.
The promise of spring is here.

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