Seeds

The Seed-Shop

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,

Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,

Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -

Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;

A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust

That will drink deeply of a century's streams;

These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,

Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;

Here I can blow a garden with my breath,

And in my hand a forest lies asleep. 

Muriel Stuart

Little Pepper Pots!!

Tap these little pods gently and out pop......

Hundreds and Thousands!

Isn't nature wonderful?   (I may have said that before!)