The Seed
The same seed, sleeping in its granary,
is hard and tight and dry. It only moves
when the shovel dips into the bin,
and follows the flow that
fills the hollow in.
The same seed, sliding to the granary floor,
is lifted up and scooped into a sack.
It nestles in the gunny-cloth,
then rides the air
upon its back.
It slides in the seeder as it bumps its way
across the harrowed field, slipping
through the wooden sieve,
packed in earth,
and set to live.
The same seed, dreaming in the cold wet ground,
is loosened by the fingers made of rain.
It feels a cracking along its seam,
and becomes the mysterious
force of green again.
Joyce Sutphen lives on the edge of a hundred-acre marsh. Read more.
“The Seed” has been previously published in Coming Back to the Body.