A tin of foxglove seeds becomes an unlikely gift, one that saved and life and gave life, a poem etched in aluminum, a promise in a jar. Hatching, taking flight, the seeds produce the seasons, rising and falling as the dance in happy circles past the pavement and debris. Alighting, slowly they revolve, the seeds mingling with the freshness of the air, the tang of hope, the crisp flavour of drying laundry, sheets and pillow cases. They hit the window panes, bounce and recoup, recoil and bounce again. Sliding downward they burrow in the cracks in the casements, the sweet wisps and tendrils caressing the chipped paint and splintery wood of the frame. The dusky window welcomes them, age reflected in smudgy fingerprints and impacted dust, little eddies of time. Further yet the seeds fly on, saying goodbye to the brothers left behind. Swirling into the landlocked field they go, searching the decaying perimeter of sandy tires and stained cloth, rumpled garbage bags, lying shiny and riddled with suspicious lumps in the waning afternoon sun. they dance across the spine of a forgotten bed frame, rust peeling and shedding like the feathery skin of an ancient snake. Some follow the route of the frame to the motherly earth, embedding themselves into the crumbly soil, taking hold, placing roots - flourishing. They will grow and spread, grow and bloom, eclipse, create, blush fragrance from petals bright and glistening in morning’s dew. They too will hatch seeds, they too will send them forth with the wind produced by the most delicate of purplish sails, bidding them farewell into the world with the most dainty, the most promise-filled of kisses.
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