I hold his hand
While he drops the seed
Tiny, almost too small to see
Or hold in boy fingers.
He drops it gently,
Brushes loose soil over it
As I have taught him.
With the patience of a seven year old,
He asks when,
When will it bloom?
He plants the zinnia
For the flower
That blooms next month.
I plant the seed
For all his years
I hope.
Though it is an annual,
Not perennial,
In his hand I trust it:
The lowly
Zinnia seed.

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