Origin

Here, where long fields curve

and bees spread apart

the fuzzy middle of flowers,

where the loam is loose and dark,

one seed

has yet to curl open and rise

and prefers to sleep and dream,

replaying the hidden scene of its beginning—

the way it took

after the birds bumped the branch

and wet winds gushed

as Spring was sprung from its long sleep

where the loam was crushed frozen and forgotten—

Oh, to remember the way one took

and how the loam looked and felt

upon one’s face

(was it sharp and icy? or damp and warm?)

before a face was even formed.

By Joshua Wren