I might as well share this poem I wrote this weekend with you folks here:

Almost alive in such a way that one could write a play,
give each member of the family a name, a part, and be
not at all surprised to find them reading their poems
to each other in the wee hours of Sunday mornings.

The mother came with offspring, each in the process
of emerging from places under-arm, their sweet rose-like
faces opening unto the rising sun, gathering strength
for future thinnings, wistfully anticipating emigration,
from one small rock to another.

If you listen very closely, set aside the white noise of the city,
you can hear them chattering, chanting chime-like prayers
to the green goddess, singing songs of summer, praising petals
that appear from nearby pots of posies; you almost expect
them to knock on the window, invite you to join them.

Carly Svamvour - July 18, 2004

* * * *

When sorting seeds, do not whistle.