“Rain has buried her seed and her dead.” – James Still
Shriveled seeds sleep in tombs but leap
millennia when sown. Alive, they plead
for rain, burst their eon-shells, outdoing
what prophets promised.
So too, asleep, we barely inhale,
shrouded by feathers and flannel,
dead weight on our beds. But what
lay dormant in mind’s core gathers
rest’s rain, stretches, seeds scenes
beyond foretelling.
Nancy K. Jentsch | Melbourne (Campbell County)