Seed.

On the internet,

the line between human and machine

blurs a little more each day.

I don’t believe half of what I see—

the other half just feels so mean.

And I—I feel like a child again,

asking why everyone suddenly grew so angry

and chose to shout it into the void

for all to see.

Their fury grows louder by the hour.
I have to shut my screen.

But here, in our quiet kitchen,

we shared a cucumber

grown from a seed you gave me on Valentine’s Day.

It curled into a vine,

blossomed, and bore fruit—

again and again,

week after week.

And I saw: it wasn’t just the seed you gave me,

but the light, the water, the soil—

all of it building me strong

enough to weather the storms ahead.

Show me an algorithm that can do that.

How vast I could be,

if I could plant seeds like you—

tucking cucumbers into every heart

each Valentine’s Day.

They’d vine and blossom,

feed us all into summer.

Our mouths too full to shout,

our hands too full to scroll,

to type, or to post.

We’d be so heavy with fruit,

we’d have to stop.

Sit.

Look each other in the eyes.

Maybe then—

it would be better.

Maybe then,

I wouldn’t feel

so small.