Each miniature fist, that band of which snuck in
to rule your shoulders like a shadow government,
unclenches as slow as a rose blooming and as

sure.  Your face still damp with human rain,
you turn the soil - it's as scarred and dry
as your hands. So far, you don't feel much

more than tired, failure's brightest poster-child.
Five inquisitive sparrows crowd 'round, whistling
randomly, while clouds limp lowly in, full

of the next season - all proof this process
you can not control, only join, will
crack the seed of your buried soul.

And who knows who or what
this slowly growing fruit will feed?