Blue seeds, purple ones, grey day ones:
all pressed with intent into soil amended
by bits of remaining trash transformed
through alchemy into nutrient.
Treasure the ones you worry will never sprout.
Bury those on your knees deep into the moist
humus of love for your mother and brother;
breathe hot air into the frozen patches.
Stand shoulder to shoulder with others pressing closer
until your arms link and the seeds overwhelm with their bright
blooming towards the light. By all means do not forget to sing
while you plant, for prayer is like water in these times.
This work will take bent backs and great
care as each seedling is thinned and pruned so
that not even one throws shade.
Do not waste your heart in worry as seeds crack
and strain against the clotted, dry earth; surely
they will find passage to the light
and their flowers will whisper, “yes”
when you return in the moonlight to harvest.