seed bank

I know what I know, A wind in the trees, And a road that goes winding under, From here I see rain, I hear thunder
Somewhere there's sun, and you don't need a reason


The breeze travels down the street, past the Courthouse and the church steeple before caressing my skin and gently playing with the hair on the back of my neck. I sit on the steps waiting. The cool is like a long lost friend, the feel of cloth beneath my knee is a forgotten feeling. The cool brings with it refreshment and a relief that hasn't been felt in months, and yet the undertow is something strong and unsettling. It's pulling. Asking me to run, telling me it's time again.

I tuck my feet underneath the wide leg of my sweats to fight off the chill and sit a little longer. I watch as the trucks pull into the lot across the street, open the gate, and go home to their families. A little seed of thought was dropped nonchalantly yesterday into my brain, yet it took off like mad. It needs to be pruned and cut back. Maybe even transplanted. It's not ready to bloom yet. Better yet, I'm not ready for it to mature.

So instead I put the seed into a seed repository cryobank where it will stay frozen until I'm ready for it to be planted again. Until then I'll fight with the message of the wind and sit defiantly and watch the sunrise.

Little bird, little bird, Brush your gray wings on my head, Say what you said, say it again, They tell me I'm crazy, But you told me I'm golden