germs embryonic and vulnerable to inclement
fortune, anxious for them to take root and gestate
into rarefied specimens at an eventful hour
when our dreams will finally be in season.
Planting is a faithful deed, belief in action,
a principled defiance of daunting odds.
Rare is the reaper who did not first sow,
renouncing cynicism, banishing doubt.
Patiently awaiting the harvest, we admire
the impact of a single pebble in a pond,
rippling all around, a lithic seed in its watery layer,
its influence out of all proportion to its size.
Like the seed, we must break open to rise anew,
parting with roughcast forms to emerge
transcendent and reinvented, sometimes
unrecognizable to bygone impressions.
Seasons shift and we gather ripened yields
to check them against original hopes, conscious
of losses, satisfied with gains, trusting that
renewal is the one thing that never gets old.