What happens to the seed-
encapsulated, shut-tight world of its own,
and everything is ok and small and safe,
and nobody knows what swims around inside,
what tumults are writhing inside-
what happens when it hits the ground?
What happens to the seed
when it’s time to be and to do-
when gently its fresh green stems slip out,
a slow violence despite what the seed would try
to reign in, to hold dear, what feared death
it would desperately try to prevent-
what happens when the seed
can no longer be?
To be anything of purpose,
the seed must always die,
must endure being slowly ripped apart,
its crumbled shell discarded,
to be nothing once again.
But what happens to the seed
when its soul has poured out
and has stretched its aching sinews
to the sun?