I do not know if anything can still be said about seeds that will not immediately fall into the most obvious kinds of romanticism and cliche. This sort of idealization is a large part of the reason why I often claim to be cynical about spring and romantic only about autumn. Even so, I need to confess that there is something unavoidably compelling about planting seeds, about pushing them into the soil with my fingers, about knowing what they might become.
There is something so perfectly anticipatory about planting seeds, something that looks so absolutely toward what might come. It may very well be romantic of me to say so, and I might very well contradict my self proclaimed cynicism in so saying, but there is something miraculous in the seed, something that perhaps only escapes cliche when I do it with my own hands.