Breathe in deep the smell of dry earth between fingertips and know that it really has no use at all until we comprehend its true, miraculous worth. I planted a little story seed and, watered with tears of joy or sorrow, watched it as it began to grow. We weep for a past that’s been and gone but the seed continues growing with each drop of liquid gained. We weep for the now which means so much to some. Weep for this and that meanwhile the seedling becomes an epic. The story of our lives. From dust to seed, to life then, back to dust again.
Shared with Jenny Matlock Saturday Centus #77 100 words + the prompt ‘I planted a little story seed.’ 106 altogether.