Seeds

if we whisper, “can they hear us?”
will they hear us captured in the first breath of spring?
a still birth before the warmth permeates the soil
muddied hands and the blur of you in the morning sun.
cupped in your palms, lost in the forest, again.
a cold wind pushes us back underground.
the first of us died in such miserable ways,
as we learned to avoid the ungentle path,
and recognize the betrayal hidden 
behind the backs of our neighbors —
where shade casts itself eternally,
and the wind cuts through us differently 
than it does for the others.
melt this flesh, simplicity, and shallow snow. 
wake me when it’s over.
promise you will find me in another time, 
when the violence of us
is just a murmur in our genetics,
instead of our predominant nature.

A poem dedicated to all the seeds that won’t make it through spring. The Climate Crisis is making it harder for seeds and plants to germinate.