A Poem For Palm Sunday Eve (sort of)

“Half a Mustard Seed”

There’s a seed caught
Between my teeth.
I don’t always notice,
But sometimes it nags at me
And I must speak.

It’s a tiny thing,
Just a mustard seed.
It may even be half-gone,
Neglected, bitten and spat out.

Should I dig it out,
Throw it away,
Ignore and forget it?
Or swallow it, water it,
And see whether it grows inside me?
–Karen Funk Blocher †