“In The Beginning . . . “
May 14 2022
In the children's story
the seeds are magic,
and the beanstalk
big enough to climb.
But all seeds are magic
beneath their tough resilient casing;
the alchemy
of soil, water, sun
and nothing else,
the tightly coiled homunculus
of a living plant
suspended inside
for who knows how many years.
How we husband seeds
pass them on
hoard the precious ones.
While promiscuous nature
casts them to the wind
and chokes the land with them,
entices insects
to spread them
with gifts of golden nectar.
How prudent farmers
collect their seeds
for next year's crop,
and starving men
eat their birthright
simply to survive
And now, with the garden put to sleep
until spring
I feel untold wealth
cupping them in two hands,
each seed
containing its own small universe.
And me, the steward
of their unbroken line;
dividing the light from darkness,
opening them up to the sky,
and finding dry land
on which to plant them
in warm fertile soil.
Then offering sweet water
to help them flourish and grow,
where they will bring forth
the grasses, fruits and herbs.
Germination
like the first day of creation
in the beginning
of every spring.
I read a piece about seed sharing, and the brilliance of seeds really struck me. The seeming magic of all that information and potential crammed into this tiny container. The relative effortlessness of their growth, left on their own with nothing more than time, sun, water. The act of foresight and stewardship their propagation implies, carefully passed on from year to year and generation to generation.
As I wrote, the most powerful metaphor that came to mind was the Biblical creation story. So the poem ends by roughly recapitulating the first day of creation, as well as the first words of Genesis: In the beginning.
How intriguing that the Bible has such enduring resonance in our culture, so much so that a fundamentalist atheist such as myself would repeatedly call back to Biblical references in his poetry.
No comments:
Post a Comment