Lighthouse for Seeds

At the edge of March, the fields are listening, furrows dark as wet piano keys, and crows lift from them in a black, brief chord that leaves the morning trembling in its glass.

My grandmother's hands return in the wind, not as ghosts, but as instructions: press the seed, cover it gently, trust the patience hidden under cold.

By noon the river loosens its winter tongue, speaking in silver over broken ice; I kneel and smell iron, rain, and roots, a country of green waiting to pronounce itself.

Evening sets one amber lamp in each puddle. Nothing has flowered yet, and everything has begun. In the barn, a shovel leans like a quiet bell, ready to ring the earth again tomorrow.