The seeds sit
Shallow in the dirt, in a pot
That belonged to my uncle. From
Here they will sprout, bringing their
New life to the earth.
The pot rests, hard
against the stone with newfound divots, dug
Across the soil made fresh, before the rain.
Stolen by some damn bird with its bleak,
Brown feathers, leeching
That new life.
Drawing from it the strength for
Its own breath, stripping the seed’s sensitive power.
The question bubbles in the emptiness of the pot,
What, in truth, can new life sweetly bring
When its life impedes the start of spring?