Lorrie Wolfe

I believe in the magnificence of seeds — these tiny forces that can produce flowers, food, even huge trees. There are few things more powerful, except for hope and love. Combined, these three things make the world better, more beautiful, and more meaningful. When the world feels overwhelming, I look for smaller things to write about. This has given rise to psalms to seeds, such as “The Seed’s Prayer” in Plant-Human Quarterly.

Though I no longer run a rototiller or other equipment, I still watch growing things with awe, respect, and hopefully, with patience. I mourned the demise of a huge, 100-year-old cottonwood tree that grew along an irrigation ditch behind my house. When the ditch company cut it down because it drank too much of their water, I cried and took more than 75 (all lousy) photos of its deconstruction — much to the amusement and suspicion of the guys wielding chain saws.

I love watching Colorado’s change of seasons. These are sometimes abrupt and unexpected. Weather forecasters here are notoriously wrong. Each season has its own beauty, but I like fall best for its desperate enthusiasm, as I hope is reflected in my poem “September Morning.”