Beautiful eyes, still brimming with innocent curiosity
Even though they've come to see things before their opportune time
You tend to your garden
Trimming, pruning
Singing sweet songs along the rows of this and thats you've cultivated
But it seems the seeds that produce
The most beautiful harvest
Are the ones sewn in soil nourished by your blood
With roots pull at your teeth
Or spores that claw their way beneath your nails
"How long" you ask
"How long before I find seeds that require water, and the Sun? Because I am thirsty, and I am cold."
"How long?" You ask
"How long?"
But you are here, and you are now.
Refusing to be defined by the fractured womb from which you sprang
And there is work which can only be done
By you
