Tuesday, July 16, 2024

What chances have seeds to
unpack their potential,
come out of their casings
and transform, and become,

as beaks nip and claws dig
to quiet gaping mouths,
as winds blow, heat sizzles
and ice splinters the ground?

When facing the onslaught,
what chances of living
to see the light and seed
again, again have seeds?

And still, we have forests.
Still meadows. Still wetlands.
Still towering redwoods.
Still wildflowers, teeming.

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love notes
a ritual to start the week