Though the dawn anticipates 
blessing the shed’s glossed shovel,
the packets of waiting seeds seethe, 
dropped into empty pots 
along the shed’s exterior.

Another day and they are again
to witness the morning’s warmth, 
victims of procrastination. 
Where is the gardener? 
Drinking coffee on the porch again? 
The seeds, eager for burial, 
desire the crisp soil to coax them 
into their realized selves. 

The sunlight’s boisterous arrival, 
the seeds think, seems arrogant 
to emblazon the morning 
with cheery outlook, 
droplets on the nearby grass 
evaporating without sound or taste.
Droplets, they could be drinking.