I like the word parsley, and had the good fortune to be pricking out little parsley seedlings one recent Saturday. So delicate, and beautiful root systems, clear white, about twice as tall as the seedlings, if they are let to grow. 

 

From parsley seed

Sarah sowed these parsley seeds,

Which now I’m moving on;

They curtsey to the passing sun

With tender tutu leaves,

While white, riverine roots,

Enchant the sunken rain in a weft of threads,

From sleep below in darkened beds,

To rise again, and lave their droughty shoots.

Another world I cannot see,

Spins itself out of liquid and light,

Solidifies from air,

The heft of energy,

A spell of order on timeless night;

And all because Sarah sowed them there.