Way back behind the jar
of rusty screws
we find the dust-covered
seed pack: Yates, Grosse Lisse,
plant before December1995.
Might be a bit late.
At the centre
of the created universe,
deep within each living molecule
a seed has been planted.
Buried in the cold darkness
a tiny parcel of potential
holding its divine dna,
splendid and auriferous, quietly
anticipating the promised rain
and the word of assent
that will permit it to sprout.
The smallest gesture of warmth
may be enough.
Then will come a burst
of hope-saturated life
to break through indifferent soil;
becoming,
growing and becoming.
With time, care and steadfast striving
much long-sought fruit can be produced.
Within each soul, a seed, scattered,
sown by the one who creates;
the rain is gifted by the Spirit,
but the word of assent
must come from ourselves.
Never too late.
© Ken Rookes 2012
poemsinseason 