Stems askew, some attached,
others abandoned by their seed,
the memory of spring orbs lingers.
Some sweet, others tart,
tight skinned, some softening
to a wrinkle.
I throw the away the jumble
after coffee. No point in planting
these seeds. They have served
I wonder if I were to take them
to my garden, make room for them,
would trees grow. Would their genesis
allow for such possibility.
Outside my window plants thrive
where I planted not. Volunteers
push through earth. Hail pelted petals,
confetti sprinkled beneath new buds
burgeoning. None of this my doing.
There must always be time and space to
gentle something into new being,
make room for You.