in a sphere of fluff
which can be pulled apart.
The fluff, though soft,
begins to burr into my fingers
as I rub the seeds free
The posts say I need to
make winter for the seeds,
need to keep them cold and damp
until they calculate
winter is done — now, if it gets warm
it’s safe to sprout
They describe it in terms of hormones
but I tuck the seeds in, I talk to them.
Who am I to say what kind of wisdom
has not been passed down,
mother to many future children,
grand dappled limbs
coursing the message of life,
roots to crown, earth to atmosphere,
the record of many winters
to inform this one that will now come for the seeds,
packed and labeled in my refrigerator.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 14, 2016
photo by Edward Mulhern
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