There wasn’t a seed he wouldn’t save.

Vials of seeds from all those years of gardens grown
were stored everywhere,
and he remembered
each seed he had placed in rich soil,
fertilized from his own compost.

The never-ending holy seeds of all kinds
in paper packets,
some with strange names,
with specific instructions
on how deep to plant each and when,
were waiting.

How long he would have to wait didn’t matter.

Heavy winter rains had turned the garden to mud,
and no seeds were planted last year,
but there were many still calling to him
in a holy hymn of hubris
with dreams of March roots.

He wasn’t a holy man,
but when he held a single seed in his palm
he might as well have been.