The seed beneath the dry, dead grasses
waits, as we have waited to begin again
with rain, to plant themselves, screw and twist
into damp dirt, to swell and burst—first
hands open to feed the living, applaud life,
millions of ovations standing on their own.
Each a miracle rising from hollow, blond
and brittle stems, from the dust of bare
red clay and sandy ground—alive and green.
Our private holiday, hope and relief let go
to breathe freely, to work fully within
this new beginning for one more poem.