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.