Is there anything more satisfying than growing something from seed? We’ll see. I’ve just planted wild flowers in my front yard. So far the birds have dug out what I figure to be at least half, extracting with the precision of surgeon the fleshy insides while leaving the empty coats behind for me to discover, and curse.
Still, there is a unique hope in sifting the impossibly small seeds of say, evening primrose, between ones fingers into the rain wet earth. To think I could be a small party in the catalyst for life. What power. What responsibility.
