i.
In elementary school we used to wrap seeds in damp paper towels. Their shadows would blotch the white. We would leave them in a plastic bag on the shelf beside the window, and let the sun slowly suck the moisture out of the paper towel. Every morning, our teacher would prompt us to run over to the shelf and open our plastic bags – there, we would find tiny sprouts emerging from their shells, twinning slowly across the white. The miracle of growth blossomed in front of our primary eyes.
ii.
Rupture
A spinal crack as
The stem splinters its shell
Green cellulose grounds itself into the dirt
And tears away from its carcass
Trickling limbs wander
As trickles becomes avalanches
Rooting themselves
Like subterranean aliens
iii.
After science class, we had lunch. We would bundle up in layers of coats and scarves to play out in the snow, amongst the trees, where we would recreate ancient civilizations. Forts would rise, out of sticks and ice blocks. We reinvented writing with berry juice and the skin from birch bark trees. Our teachers would yell at us for peeling the bark, showing juvenile layers from out under white and black coats. They said it harmed the trees. I never saw the truth in that for many years.
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