I taste the grains on my lips
I feel its coarseness
Softened and weighted by recent rains
I am packed down and in
It is comfortable and cool
And it is heavy.

I feel close to rest
But my breath
Yearns to emerge

If my eyelids had the strength,
They’d see no mile markers.
There are no roads here.
There is only soil ripe for seed.

But, I wonder
Does a seed ever ask itself,
“How do seeds grow?”



MaryLiz Bender

A Creative Storyteller and Experiential Artist, driven by awe and wonder.