What I hold, What I carry
On the Eve of a Planting
It wasn’t always a Seedling, merely a Seed
But I’ve carried it always, somewhere on, about me
Pressed against my comfort, knotted in my rest
It bruised and it turned me, like the princess on her pea.
Often, I tried to ask me, I did really want to see:
What is it we have here? Why does it ache so, this vision of me?
But whenever I did look, I saw with my mind
and sadly, that’s all I could see, so
Each time I decided, it wasn’t for me.
The Seed had a price tag and the price was too high
All it was asking, was more than I was
And all that is mine, was not mine to give
Yet I yearned — just to hold it, just for a moment to dream.
But Tonight, on this Eve, I made a decision
I chose the Seed — and picked it up
It was not solid; it was not hard, not formed like a covenant
nor laden like a vow
It did not ask a price of me;
It asked instead that I let go of,
the notion of exchange
That I might make room to know
of something freely given…
