Summer Solstice

"I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth."
                           – William Faulkner

Seeds

All morning, a pocket full of seeds—
morning glories from Zimbabwe,
moon flowers from China, the Cosmos
of Tanzania, Japanese trowel opening
this ground, and on the cedar bench,
cha preto, Brazilian black tea steaming.
This hill of mud and mulch holds
all my pretty pebbles hauled
from the mouth of the Mad River
and hours kneeling at Agate Beach,
the occasional fossil moved with me
from Pennsylvania, Washington, old oceans
turned stone, the impression of shells beside
shells of limpets and periwinkles
brought home from Fiji.
A global garden here.
The hands of strangers touched
each seed, so every blossom
will bear a sweetness, the unmet life
shadowing each interior, the tongues
of hummingbirds back from Mexico,
tongues thin as pins pricking deep,
will shine, a brief blur, licking.

Allen's Hummingbird, photo: Terry Schulz