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I chose a seed
and planted it,
in a hole I found
in fertile ground.

I watered it
each and every day
in hopes it would grow,
but for days, no show.

For weeks I watched
then months went by
still nothing grew
but would, I knew.

Breathed in the air.
Soaked up sun.
Through the motions
so like devotions.

Then autumn came
the leaves, they fell.
into mosaics
very prosaic.

Winter followed
with snow and sleet
ice all around
cold fertile ground.

Seed surely dead
hope in my head.
Is it dormancy,
conforming me?

Spring and storms
flood the land
soaking the husk
from dawn till dusk.

Dark and cold
in that dirt hole
waters recede
from o’er the seed.

It germinated,
emerged a shoot.
A simple start
to warm the heart.

Maybe a sprout
and then a stalk
perhaps a tree
to shelter me.

Mature to seed
disperse them wide
begin again
to plant a friend.

M. Zane McClellan

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