My hands, each of its creases and wrinkles illustrated in fine germination mix, hold the tiny promises. We cradle hundreds of them in our palms, keep thousands in vest pockets. Tenderly, carefully, we lay down the thick stubs of echinacea, the slivers of arnica, and the many shades of mad dog skullcap brown. Like all promises, not all of the potential within this myriad of seeds will be realized. However, I sow them and dream of the future that I’ll give to those that sprout.
In this season of spring, as buds are slowly bulging and I am shown my first blooming snowdrops, the birds are singing again. My day is filled with the sweetness of sounds and discoveries which, like some favorite words, I always forget until they sneak up on me and thrill me with their textures, their singular tones, the richness of their meanings.