“I need to buy seeds.” As my wife drove us to church, I remembered the garden. My time at a writers conference, plus a week of rain, had kept me from planting.
If I wanted a crop, I needed to plant something—and that meant seeds.
Last fall I’d composed the garden with a layer of shredded leaves. After the snow melted, I’d twice turned over the soil. With a final raking, it would be ready to plant. If only I had some seeds.
At a garden center, I selected packets of green beans, peas, lettuce and carrots. My wife found sunflower and columbine seeds.
But for the past few days, as rains continued, the seeds have sat in the garage.
That’s a shame. The photos on the packets look good enough to eat. Even the varieties’ names sound enticing: Prizehead, Black-Seeded Simpson, Blue Lake Stringless, Landreth’s Stringless Green Pod, Danvers 126 Half-Long, Burpeeana Early.
I almost want to keep the packages inside. Maybe put them in a shadowbox.
That’s not what seeds are for. I need to tear open those packets, place the seeds in rows, and cover them with soil. I need to relinquish control and bury them.
I think of the writers conference. For four days, people attended classes, listened to panels, and had appointments. Now they have notebooks filled with information, minds filled with ideas.
There’s another package of seeds in my garage. The box of “Wildflower Mix” contains seeds for “17 beautiful varieties,” enough to cover one-hundred square feet.
There’s just one problem. The box says the seeds were packed for 2005. Someday I’ll get around to planting them. Maybe after I revisit that manuscript I started a few years ago.