Words Like Seeds by Anne Ramallo

I planted words like seeds beneath my driveway

in the construction trench that felt like a metaphor

for all the ways I was torn open. 

Beneath a humpback moon I fed my cursive

to the mud and isopods,

left them to dissolve, break open, release.

“Value yourself

Your happiness

Your skills…”

Whoever sows bountifully shall also reap bountifully. 

I should have buried paragraphs in the open studs. 

“Let it engulf you till you ignite…”

That same year, a tomato sprouted spontaneously

through an impossible crevice in concrete, a gift

from what I'd planted last decade. 

Red gems dusted with sunshine

adorned my salad, smiled

like blushing cheeks on ricotta toast.

Whatever a man sows, that shall he also reap. 

I grew up believing it mattered what I did.

“Fertilize my delusions of grandeur…”

I planted words like seeds to grow a garden

where my heart would open like petals to sun, 

my hands two bees collecting.

“Recycling decay into nourishment…”

Sower and reaper will rejoice together.

Every me I've ever been: sower, reaper, sluggard, fool.

One day I’ll meet that trembling self

who looked by moonlight for reasons to stay,

and hand her a bouquet on stems strong as em-dashes.

For now, I wait and water the page.

Anne Ramallo is a writer, editor, performer, and mom living in Los Angeles. Her poetry and short fiction, have been featured in multiple journals and anthologies. She placed third in the national Pen Parentis 2026 Fellowship for parent writers. Anne is a co-founder of indie press Poets in the Pines, whose anthology Made From Midnight: a requiem released in 2025. Her chapbook, The Ocean In A Cup, is forthcoming. Keep up with her on Instagram @AnneRamallo.