But How? Waiting for the Seedlings

A pea breaks through.

When I drop the tiny dry seed into the grooved earth, no deeper than a finger nail, and cover it with soil and pat dirt down, I sit and doubt. I doubt a plant will ever come from this. I do not articulate these doubts. I feel them. A skepticism directed at the seed and the earth. I just do not see how something that lay packed away in a drawer or stacked on top of the living room bookcase, sometimes for more than a year, how from this anything could grow, let alone in dirt often strewn with rocks and sticks. And yet, I water the rows and the hills and I wait. I get down on my knees and scrape away the top layer of shredded leaves and little sticks and I check. And then, there it is, the light green shoot, just beyond the dirt's crust, sometimes wearing its seed casing like a crown, and I sit there and still I doubt. I feel the impossibility of how something so fragile, something that could be plucked free with no effort, could survive spring's downpours, could go unnoticed by the eastern cottontail, could by-pass the tree-root and rock below, could grow strong and bear leaves and fruit; how? And yet, each year they come and they grow and my doubt is replaced by joy.