When earth finally moves again
and soil gives up after soaking rain,
we watch seeds pods crack open,
spindly white stems humbly folded,
their heads still buried in dirt.
I marvel at miracles,
little babes surrounding me
like folds of skirts, hugging my legs
and screaming all sorts of nonsense
because they are tired and hungry.
I watch them now, their heads bent low,
their stems spindly and white, and I
wonder how much rain it will take to soften
their earth, if they will keep their heads buried
or suffer the ache of reaching upward.