Can you feel the moment seed hits soil
and starts pushing up toward the light?
I’m up late, soaking in the coda of something
that isn’t even a song yet, with the light on my nightstand
lingering and the curtains drawn. I keep it on a bit longer
while I write about this, take a moment
to breathe in the newness. This is always how it is.

You know the next morning
you’re going to wake up
with the quickening humming in your soil,
bones repatterning under your skin,
blood cells vibrating to let the stranger in.

I feel her pushing against my rocks,
evaluating the surface.
I feel the tug of her roots descending,
cotyledon bursting, Kermit-green:
a heart-shaped inquiry
I can’t help but water.

What will they bring? Will this be a quick harvest,
a crop of radishes—lunch for the skunks,
or the start of a garden?
It’s hard to say, always. I lie under the covers,
trembling, osmotic—thinking of the other beginnings,
these inceptions I didn’t expect.
I turn over the soil, remembering them all.
I’m strangely calm, like always; my membrane thins
and I paint my cortex with the colors of her skin.
I surrender to disturbance
and dilate toward the night,
my shadow glowing as I turn off the light.

© Psyche Marks 2019

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