img_1304First you haul out the weeds and till the soil.
Then you plant the seed.

When the seedlings break through the soil, you water.
Then one day you see, for the first time, how rocky the soil is.

When you transplant the seedlings to temporary quarters, you see the root hairs
clutch at fine rocks, the tightfisted root forming an intricate web around the rock.

And now you dig through the soil, abandoning gloves
to feel the sharp edges that must go; the dirt on your nails, a labor of love.

When you return the seedlings to the soil, you realize that the garden is improbably large:
the garden is your heart,

which must enlarge itself to accept the seed entrusted to it:
whether windborne or transported by hitchhiker,

that each disheveled root hair that burrows in the recesses of your heart
has the power to transform you,

that your body, like soil, yields to the seed,
to the storm, to the hail, and to drought,
and survives.

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