SPROUTS

The future rests in my utility room. 

I peer in anticipation, 

Hoping to witness the miracle. 

However, 

The stillness lingers 

Until I go to bed 

And it must be then 

That the miracle appears. 

The beat of life potential is almost palpable

Pulsating beneath the tender soil.

The energy of beginnings radiating from

The scent of raw earth

Speaks to me

With a soundless embrace.

Slender, graceful leaves point up like ballet dancers in a pirouette. 

Hundreds of them. 

So fragile – delicate – joyous in their reaching out – 

Trays and trays of hope on warming mats, 

Close to sunny windows, secure enough, 

So they won’t get pushed over 

Or dug into 

Or eaten 

By the cats.