Playing with seeds

 

Seeds escape the nonchalant pressure of my fingertips,  

rolling between the crests of thin skin,

they tickle the nest of my left hand.

If I plant them all in one place,

garden or pavement weed,

do I need to stay?

 

The generation with the most seeds.

Playing with pips of interconnected neuronal systems,

playing with purpose.

Inaction is the revolution,

so not to allow growth,

so not to reproduce patterns,

so not to play the time game.

 

Playing with a frozen will.

Nothing can go wrong

in the comfy warmth of a left vase.

But seeds will fade with me.

Don't we all know that scattering is part of the game?

Better leave them by the road, on the roof, or in the moss.

Let them go before the last rites, that will nest them anyway.