It couldn't just be any hole. This one called for special preparation. The earth was hard in its winter sleep, but Sam nevertheless turned over the soil for a good yard in every direction, ripping out the remnants of old tree roots and making sure that the soil was loose. He then mixed in his own special blend of manure and filler, to help the soil breathe. He fluffed it, smoothed it, and leveled out the edges of the mound. Finally, in the center of the heap, he burrowed a hole using just his fingers, until he was down the length of his hand. He sat back, and studied the hole. It would suit.
He wiped his hands on the rag that always hung from his breeks, when he was gardening. The dirt was caked beneath his nails, but Sam knew from long experience that it would stay there, and not mix into--what he didn't want mixed. Carefully, he removed the plain wooden box from his pocket. Silver flashed briefly in the dim winter light as he lifted the lid. He hesitated, looking at the trove within. At length, he made his decision: one pinch.
He tilted the box and tapped it lightly to gather what was left into one corner. From this, he picked up just enough dust to hold between his forefinger and thumb. Cautiously, painstakingly, he drizzled it into the hole. His mouth was dry; would the magic work?
He reached into the box again. For the first time, he closed his fingers about the small, silver seed. His heart leaped. Even now, in the dead of winter, he could feel... something. A life pulse within the shale. For a moment he seemed to see, with other eyes, silver boughs laden with golden flowers; from beyond their stems issued a song of surpassing beauty that hung upon the air, piercing him with words that skipped the understanding in his head, and went straight to his heart.
The vision fled. Anxiously, reverently, Sam dropped the seed into the hole. Gently, he nudged the soil closed.
He sagged onto his heels, feeling spent. All there was to do now, was wait.