Parable of the Sower

Desperation too has a place in the pantheon of virtue.

Take the absurd, impossible abundance of seed--
life so desperate to renew itself
that it would give itself away a thousand times over
for one chance to flourish.

We are shards of a long since shattered creation,
hesitant germs of seeds sometime spread lavishly
on broken sidewalks.
The soul collides with the body,
releasing a seismic whimper
that only nerves frayed by relentless disappointment
can sense,

and the earth refuses to be subdued.

The drama of suffering plays itself out in the stars,
a static canvas that masks
the quiet deaths of ancient powers.

Apocalypse is a convenient anxiety,
a final resolution
to what can never be taken back:
the Sower's extravagance,
the effervescence of spirit.

The very core of the earth so longs
to drink in that sweet, hope-filled air
that it cries out in
for release.

With the smell of snow still on the air
the desperate green forsythia shoots
stretch so anxiously toward heaven
that they explode almost instantly
in brilliant, fragile yellow
long before the march of spring begins.