Herb Garden in Bloom

I wilt under the pressure of my own potential.
In a long awaited summary: I am the end of my own self.

I suppose this conclusion has some nodding their heads,
Thinking: well, of course, we knew all along, it was obvious.
As I nod along with them accepting my fate.
Sometimes, in moments that seem a little too quiet,
I wonder how it would feel to take so much power into myself that
I could step over the edge towards the end.
In those moments, it does not matter that I am willing to patiently wait for the end to find me.

I watched the chives I planted years ago sprout again in the spring,
Growing taller and more robust for it's neglect.
As fall came upon us the flowers went to seed, gradually giving way to the pull of the earth
And when I brushed by them on some important errand I could hear the seeds pitter-pat to the ground.
With bowed heads the plant shaded those precious seeds and I could almost hear the whispers of encouragement.
I brushed by them again, just to hear the sound as the fell and then it reminded me of sleet against the window
In wintertime.
The air is cold and damp and I am sad for those seeds and that plant, because they
Fell from the raised herb bed and onto a wooden deck; there is no dirt to root in.

Children's book assure me that some of them will make it, somehow, because that is
The nature of these things.
There is hope in there, somewhere, and so
I scatter my words along as
I nod my head.