Each evening, I tuck them in for sleep,

rotating their moist vessels for equal exposure,

snipping weaker members,

offering drinks to the thirsty,

loving touch, kind words

to carry them through long, still-chilly nights.

 

First thing in the morning I burst through the door,

eager to discover magic made manifest while I dreamt.

I hold my breath and tiptoe to their ledge,

not wanting to disturb their noble efforts.

Bending down, I take stock

of the miniscule but mighty growth since last observation.

I beam, clasp hands in delight

to see that true leaves have emerged,

stuck seeds have been shed.

 

In their holy presence,

I inhale musty soil and give thanks to all

that lies beyond my knowing.

I breathe the purity emitted by tender green sprouts,

cleansing me with their simplicity, their fortitude.

The singularity of their struggle,

the unfaltering acceptance of their purpose

inspires me to pursue my own life with such discipline,

such humility, such faith.

 

Each day I observe their journey, wanting to do more than watch,

wanting to bury my toes in a little pot,

curl into a ball underneath silky soil,

and begin to grow thirsty roots

connecting me to a deeper, more basic calling.

I want to slumber in the shelter of damp earth,

nestled between brothers and sisters in the process of becoming.

I want to awaken one morning to the gentle tug of sun

and exert a fierce, tenacious thrust

through the rich, moist canopy cradling my infant self.

As my roots solidify, anchoring me into purpose,

I want to stretch tender arms toward the sky to embrace light.

I want to throw my head back and dance with the breeze

strengthening my fragile body and instructs me in joy.

 

Before pollination,

before fruits appear,

I gather this delight,

this fantastic obsession,

my first harvest of the season.

I am nourished.