In the midst of the spring snow storm....
WHAT THE SEED KNOWS
Anita Skeen
winter plods on like a Russian novel, spring
hints, haiku
tight blouses unbutton, jackets unzip,
skin is not just skin
rich soil proliferates
in the heart, in the hand
that can never let go
rivers flow unseen, underground, unfettered
unfathomable
some dig down, some rise up
some survive
sleep is not dreamless:
how else the orange, the dogwood?
the phalanx of asparagus?
coddled in the pod,
all the seed needs:
darkness, more snug
than light
grit splits the rock,
raises a tiny fist, screams
the world into profusion
of petaled racket
to uncurl and unfurl
to unhusk from the crust
to inhale, exhale
turn toward what's bright
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