We plant our hearts
deep in the cold soil
watch them sprout
and grow into trees of stone
with roots that reach
backward through time.
The trees mature,
bear fruit to seed
our tomorrows
with orchards of
Or we incinerate them
in the fire of regret,
cast them on the waters
to wash away with tides
knowing they will come back
in waves
to coat our tongues
in bitterness and tears,
Seder for the soul.

M. Zane McClellan

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