the fruit of patience

Old men ought to be explorers
Here and there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
—T.S. Eliot, East Coker

if old men ought to be explorers 
then young men ought to be gardeners,
able adams setting seeds into the dust
to die, to sleep, to wake, to break open
under the sky and finally bear the fruit of patience.

if we must be still and still moving
then let us ourselves become seeds,
dreams of what we would be buried,
that in the dark, invisible un-making
we might be re-created, the fruit of that Patience
which joined eternity to time.