Allow Yourself the Same Benevolent Neglect

From this autumn garden row, trim dried pods, open and scatter their holdings— a smoke of tiny specks— like postcards written, yet stowed to send as memories of August when birdbaths stand frozen and air drifts cold.

Each wrist-shake drops dozens of seeds— each an onyx bead, each a whole code for specific spring growth, for the red aroma that calls hummingbirds home, for sudden lofty stalks top-heavy with bubble-gum pink crowns.

And leave them alone on the dirt. Some the birds will eat. The rest may do nothing, less, an impression of death, as if black flecks of amphibole unconnected to fecundity or promise, chips of mineral off larger blocks.

Let the months pass, the odd snow dust the soil, the frost bind them to the hardened ground. Even forget they exist until a songbird stirs up thoughts of short sleeves and going sockless on a patch of grass.