Burying the Doubt

I'm growing flowers on my windowsill. 
I soaked the seeds on a night that burned hot. 
Feverishly covered them with dirt, will. 
Push through, I told them, make this little plot
your home.  This dirt is your mountain to move. 
I'm not leaving until I see a stem. 
I'll sit here all night if only to prove
it: the world does rotate on wisdom.  

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

too bad about that plant you really have in your window... :) :)