The Seeds

the seed people keep following me

their little packages spill out

dry possibilities

and I eye them, some round, some flat

rolling in dark clefts of earth

or wind tossed in urgent gusts

expecting something to want them

I let them drift away

everywhere things want reproducing

the geese carry the word north

the mud gushes there with such abandon

in the south the lakes are boiling with

fish spawning.

myself midway and temperate

with my hands and feet splashing in the tender trickles of

a northern spring

and my face turned south toward the sun

receive disturbing signals in the mail

another planting season gone by.