Inside this sitting here
this mind pulling knees up close to the chest with tense hands.
Inside this movement of anxiety for the body
and its worries of money,
and its teeth grinning falsely to the solution
of all things surrounding,
Is a seed.
And the hands pressing down into the soil,
and the dreams of generations in the seed
about to wake.
Tonight I will sleep with my worries
through dreams dark with soil
and the heaving cataclysm of the spade
turning earth around me, not speaking of air
or light fused with greenness,
but of darkness and the first leaves
like hands in prayer
clasped inside the seed.
– David Whyte, “Inside”