A Seed Marks Time | 10'
for SATB Chorus, String Quartet, & Piano
Lynn Ungar’s text for A Seed Marks Time initially appears to be about nature, contemplating how seeds mark time underground and dormant grasses seek moisture. But near the end of this poem, we find ourselves reflected in this blend of hurry and waiting. After all, it’s not the birds who “move through a blur of time, / forgetting appointments, neglecting obligations” and getting so lost in their work that they forget to look up—it’s us. These last few lines remind us to reconsider how we mark time: Are we simply counting minutes until it’s time for the next task on our to-do list, or are we consciously noticing the beauty around us? The final line leaves us with a sung meditation that turns into a whisper: “Now this. Now this. Now this.”
This piece is commissioned and premiered by Atlanta Master Chorale (Eric Nelson, Artistic Director) and guest conducted by Jonathan Easter.
This score will be available for programming in November 2024 and beyond. Request a perusal score here.
TIME
I wonder how a seed marks time,
tucked into the silent earth.
Does it scratch a tally
on the inside of its husk,
numbering the days until spring,
or does everything fade
into a passing blur without
the dance of bees and the
steady tick of sun across the sky?
And what about the dormant summer grass,
lying golden under the sun?
Is it passive through the drought,
or are unseen roots searching thirstily
for remembered moisture?
I know how the sunflower
turns its bright head,
oriented through the hours.
But what of the birds
who are waiting for its seeds
to ripen, or for whatever it is
that sets them on their migratory way?
Do they have some internal calendar
with days marked in red, or do they move
through a blur of time,
forgetting appointments, neglecting obligations,
or so lost in the work of the day
that dusk goes unnoticed,
and it is suddenly dark?
Are they lost, or are they
simply listening to the earth
as it chants, low and slow:
Now this. Now this. Now this.
—Lynn Ungar
from These Days: Poetry of the Pandemic Age. © 2020 Lynn Ungar.
