Seeds

On Earth, my father told me each star ejects
a thousand worlds, each world a thousand moons.
He took dirt in his hands, rubbed it in his eyes,
covered my mouth and turned

my head to the sun. Green eyes too sensitive.
No plant has ever complained. 
  Twenty years and now

I ride in this capsule, solar sail at the helm.
Out my porthole, nebulae stilled in the moment. Their gas
      rolls and tumbles 
  through the ether, a single breath. All death to life: supernova

begets stellar nursery. I’ve a potted plant
just blocking my view. Its stalk’s strong,
tall, green, and healthy. Seeds nestle
beneath the leaf. We 

share our water. We share our air, our space: 
together in this metal. I run a leaf between my fingers;
smooth, slight moisture on the blade. Smell the air

sweet. Pluck seed and hold it close to my eyes. Asexual, no plant besides
with me now. All plant the same
  seed before the next, same until the last. Rough on my skin
  and I could fit it
beneath my tongue,
  cover an eye, block my throat
        stop my breathing. 
          Call this
        a seed. 
Name nebulae out my window from lightyears away.  
     The little thing whole in my vision; 
speechless. I have no name for God.