Down and out

I planted zinnias, cosmos, asters, petunias and a bunch of other seeds this afternoon. First the soil dug up, roots and stones removed, shallow trench shaped, seeds dropped in. I pour them into my dirty fist first, then brush them a few at a time into the hollow in the ground. Then I brush the soil over them and consign them to darkness, as I used to turn off the light so my children would sleep.

They are different sizes and shapes: Cosmos are flake-shaped. Marigolds are white and black. Asters are tiny and brown like the smallest grains of sand. They don't look like much in my hand and even less impressive against the dark soil.

Nighty-night. The dirt is black as outer space and these seeds are blasting off into it, heading down and out for a distant planet, which will be...the light-lush sky where it touches down to earth. There the seedlings will grow tall and ramify, produce vivid, intricate flowers, wrestle with the wind and the rain, and dazzle me.

All that future tucked inside these seeds. It needn't be that the world is as amazing as it is. Tucking these seeds into the ground, I seem to hear Saint-Exupery's Little Prince saying, 'whenever you look up (or down in this case), you now know there's something there to care about.'

Bon voyage, little ones.