As the leaves are changing colour to golds and browns, and our world is composing itself to sleep, this poem fills my mind with images of promised life.
Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry –
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.
In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century’s streams,
These liliies shall make summer on my dust.
Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep. Muriel Stuart.
Eleutheros has a very interesting musing about dormant seeds from centuries ago being planted and being viable. I recommend it. http://freemanstable.blogspot.com/2006/01/wheat-from-another-time.html