I believe in the wisdom of turtles, their sleepy eyes, their stoic mouths clamped in a deadly grin, shells scarred by the teeth of dogs, their invisible hearts set to tick for a hundred years.
I believe in the pine tree outside my door, the way it reaches skyward, its old, drooping skirts that shelter the secrets of small creeping creatures and the neighborhood boys who keep them.
I believe in the tiny blossoms appearing overnight on the spindly tomato plant, how they hold on despite the downpour at dawn. Will the fruits appear, hardy as baseballs? Will they appear at all?
No matter, unless I believe in the carapace, in children’s devotion to crawling life, and the pledge of rain, and the sun that wheels unstoppable against that blue.
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