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March 7th  2011    Tim Candler

    I caught glimpses of a preamble to seed germinating.  Trays and a mild solution of bleach. Serious business, some of it clearly subject to proprietary rules. 

    I have my fingers crossed for Wax Gourd, but hovering around is bad for those ethers that frame the shyest seeds.  They don't like to be stared at, or prodded. It is their equivalent to wearing clothes, I suppose. Emergence is a private moment.

    Even in their packets they can sense the preamble.  I imagine the fret and the worry. That wondering whether the effort will be worthwhile. An angst related to purpose, and the knowledge that once embarked upon there is no retreat from germination.

    And there is history here, too. Rumors of a Cro-Magnon man who becomes angry around hose pipes. 

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