You have to chip away at the seeds, little hard pebbles– flick off a bit with the edge of a knife, bleed a bit when the knife-tip skites off the hard seed and bites you instead.  You have to prepare, not just shake the packet out into the ground.  The seeds have to soak, soften, sprout, then warm in the ground, and then there’s the wait before twine their way up, up and around.  But then they greet you, blue blazing, gold and white hearted, trumpeting all they are wide to the world, and it’s hard to tell in full sun, what’s the bluest thing?  The sky, or the glory blooming beneath?


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