Belief

is the key.
Belief, seeps into loam,
mists into breath, digs into bones.
The blood of terroir creeping into heart
is that belief.

Each tawny haired, black-eyed seed,
with such confinement of spirit,
like stone and steel, hides a life
emerging from underground,
in degrees of elegance
only found in nature;

reaching whiskers of leaves
to the warmth of spring, 
soaking in moisture
that drips with fermentation.

The slow sack of time
uses profound and unexpected
nurturing for growth.
If only we believe.