Burying this seed with dirty hands reminds me of my heart. I close my hands around it. I need to protect it. No one else can. No one else can keep me safe. No one can bury this seed where I want it to be buried.
Once it’s in the ground it is safe. Safe from the torrential rains and piercing lightning. Safe from the vultures that would prey. Safe in its warm, dark bed. Safe from the hurt of the sun’s scorching fingers.
Resting here under ground, I’m certain no reaper can reach me. I am so deep. All else dies. No weaknesses survive. No pains. No hurt to hound me. But sorrow has a way of digging a hole.
Now I realize what I have done. The seed I bury, the heart I hide, don’t die in the ground. The sorrows I have tried to plow away are just seeds sprouting to produce a more abundant life; they fertilize me.