Look there—something rests on your hand and even

lingers, though the wind all around is asking

it to leave you. Passing the windy passage,

you have been chosen.

Seed. Like dust or thistle it sits so lightly

that your hand while holding the trust of silk gets

gentle. Seed like hope has come, making stillness.

Wish, in the quiet.

If I stood there—stopped by a windy passage—

staring at my hand—which is always open—

hopeful, maybe, not to compel you, I'd wish

only for patience.

from Eve