JORDAN SANCHEZ

I must’ve been eight
The first time I saw one —
A seed.
I was in third grade,
We were learning about plants,
And trees,
And how the ones right outside
Started out as seeds.

We,
Little hands,
Wrapped beans in paper towels
From the bathroom,
Closed tight in Ziploc bags,
Laid in the windowpane
Of the classroom.

I didn’t know how long it took to grow something.
I didn’t know how short it took to lose it.
A seed.

Farmers are like art gallery curators.
Marble floors soft like soil.
Peering between blades of grass
Like a magnifying glass.
Brush strokes careful,
To restore,
To cultivate,
To protect
This kingdom of crops,
This castle of culture.
Of community,
Of your grandmother’s oldest recipe
That tastes just as it did
The first time.

The sun, a chandelier
Rays like candles burning flames,
Beating down
On hunched backs,
On callused hands
Gentle with care.
Shining armor worn.

The reflection, a mirror
Of where we are,
A glance of where we could be,
A reminder of where we’re not.

Our beginnings and ends,
Our past and future.
The present
Presence of hope.
The gift of
Time
Spent waiting for seeds to grow.
The seeds we sow.
In scattered grass,
In third grade class.
Like birds perched,
We wait.

Runtime: 1 minute, 40 seconds

Written June 15, 2022 for the September 2022 biennial meeting of the International Treaty on Plant Genetic Resources for Food and Agriculture, a treaty of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations.