One seed, one chance,
one life that he holds.
His eyes shiver although,
it's a hot summer day.
Each swallow is sharp,
and stabs the back of his throat,
with memories of despair.
Each step he takes brings him higher
on a ladder of uncertainty.

He's nervous, and enthusiastic,
sweat glands dance in his palm.
The salty secretion, and dirt stained crevices,
create a crude sand. Along with sea shores
of anxiety in each of his hands.

Does he compress his fists firmly,
to show his affection towards the unborn green plant?
Perhaps he can not go through with it no longer,
and wishes to terminate all the possibilities cocooned in his head,
that have been waiting to spread out it's wings of reality.
But his dreams seem to stay buried,
just as his prior attempts to a garden.

Is his green thumb nothing but gangrene,
that has only been spreading to his attempts
for success?

No, he will not be at the mercy of failure.
So in one last desperate attempt,
he hesitantly reaches for his pick.