In this uncharted place,
Seeds are my teachers —
Some have given their lives
for my learning,
teaching, in their dying,
what they needed

As for me, what I owe
is rapt attention —
I can’t assume I know a single thing —
This humble openness
is my gift
in which a seed may sprout —
I must maintain it
free of arrogance,
free of crippling doubt

They are so small
to command
so much of my time!
I imagine each of them
a fruiting plant, a meal,
a harvest . . .

My understanding
is a tiny grain,
A well-soaked seed
ready to sprout —
So much it needs to grow
to be robust, a living system
thriving on its own,
that will let me nurture life
with what I know.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 6, 2014