in the gentle creases of my palm
sit new life and old life
naively unaware of each other's existence
the smallest finger traces lines of experience
of exuberance, of defeat
for all I've held and moved and loved,
guided to fruition, away from destruction, simply held,
steady for the time being
within this outstretched hand sit tiny beads of seeds
the future of their crisp green flesh, juicy interior,
undeniable nourishment tickle my tongue
they don't even know yet what they might be
a solitary act
each tucked safely away
protected by the very soil cultivated with remnants of harvests passed
I am alive by the gift of this ground,
by the aid of my own hand
by acknowledging the intimate need of tiny seeds to be ushered into potential
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