By Betty Doyle, with commentary from Alice Hiley
I like the texture of thick soil –
its wet grit catching under my nails,
its black smear across my knee.
But mostly it is good to feel loved:
to cup the tiny pink seeds in my palm
and feel their dependance – their trust
that I will not scatter them into windfall;
that I will play sun-mother, storm-goddess;
and protect them in frost, watch them grow plump.