seeds

telling secrets underground, deep marshes, in caves, surrounded by unending ocean, tall waves, men in fishing boats, huge nets... they catch and they catch and finally as the fish move on they get in the truck and drive through the hills and then through the mountains back to their families on the high plains, back to the land of wind and sun and cold. they bring dried fish and grain and seeds and blocks of salt. they wait through the winter, they hibernate and then wake and drive back to the shore.

the heat mixes with sweat mixes with glare on the water, staining their eyes a deep dark color, the color of coffee, raised in the hills, where trees shade precious harvests that once fell to the ground unripened, when deep dark yellow clouds covered the earth and forecasted a year of no shadows, a year of thick impossible air, a year of stillness and doubt.

in the end a single white flower rose and bloomed into a field of bare earth, a single white flower with pink stripes, a single white flower that belonged in the deep thick forests of the old world, once kissed by a young girl in a pink dress, once provider of hydration, once blessed by a saint. the petals fall softly, the leaves wilt back, the seeds spread in the field and are sown.