Dear Friends,

On this glorious Autumn day in Vermont, M. and our youngest child gather seeds from the garden. They work on dill, coriander (cilantro), runner beans, calendula, zinnia, milkweed, sunflower, and others. Sprawled out on the back porch, they carefully dissect the delicate dying things and place the seeds into bleached white envelopes. In the background, the sun skulks low, peering through the dark trees as it glows through translucent yellow birch leaves, orange and red maples.

They are saving seeds. Summer winds down, quickly. But it leaves some things behind in anticipation of its return, these small deposits to draw from when Spring arrives next year and erupts into Summer again. Seeds – these tiny instructions for cyclical reanimation, these compact biological programs. They rest in cold, hard soil, or small paper packets, waiting for moisture and warmth to energize them and the world.

I watch them, and I remember a sequence of four haiku I wrote months ago. My loved ones are saving seeds for a future garden. And there is so much that must be saved. I am imagining myself sharing these same seeds with birds, which I suppose is another way to energize the world, or at least the chickadees, and my spirit.

I tried standing still
in the backyard, arms outstretched
to feed birds in hand.

The book says you must
be pure of heart – only then
will the birds grace you.

If I sing to birds,
will my songs sweeten, will my
music soothe the world?

Alight gently, glance
up, away, choose the best seed
and begin again.

Here’s to all we can save,

Jeremy