Dark soil is waiting, soft and moist.
I press seeds, keepers of sleeping life,
home to earth, and each awakens
to its inborn song. Tiny cotyledons
tightly folded in their casings, swell, burst,
thrust a shoot into air, spread open two green leaves.
Tending seedlings, I think
mouse embryos curled in a warm womb,
turtle eggs hatching under southern sands.
Spring breezes riffle my sun splashed woods,
set hepaticas’ small pink stars
twinkling across leaf littered forest floors.
In Old Chinese, a picture of a hand touching a seedling
is in the word for poetry —
words spoken at the altar of fertility —
inexhaustible effervescence.
Stillness that has no name.
About this Poem
Nathalie Sorensen read from her verse at KFPL’s 2018 Poetry Month Reading on April 24.