The Seeds That Keep Me Grounded

I’m not planting for harvest.
Not yet.
I’m planting because I need to stay close to the earth.

Something’s pulling at me—
not loud, not sharp.
Just a weight I can’t name.

So I germinate purple heirloom bell peppers.
I tend the basil and the mint outside.
I eye the warm rocks by the sidewalk,
thinking, you’ll hold heat through the night
you’ll help them grow.

And I look at the three-foot squares of dirt by the curb—
blank plots, waiting.

I think maybe corn.
Maybe wheat.
Something tall. Something ancient.
Something that whispers back when the world gets too quiet.