Mary’s poem is called Seed:
start from the bottom,
deep in the earth where it is dark and quiet.
In the dark.
and a wiggle of the toes
in the dark!
for sounds that may
or may not grow
into a symphony….perhaps.
Still, in the dark,
Winter cold eats into toes that feel the deep dark soil
that catches between them like sand on a beach,
scratching a sound in the dark.
Waiting still, in the dark,
Asleep in the comfort of velvet soil,
warm and soft where the wood sap seeps.
Why would any seed want to grow?
swelling, resting, resting, resting, gaining, moving, pushing,
call it what you will…
Moving through and up and out…
What could stop it?
Still in the dark
when comfort’s seen
it slaps the face
like an old wet fish
and anger roars from its slumber,
thrashing and howling like a small child that doesn’t know what anger is.
And so words
grow like body or mind, out of the ground and from that darkness into