Our Burning Seeds

A seed, a seed, I need to grow, from low to high, from bare to fruit,

Even if all it takes is all I am, I’ll wait til burning’s moot.

Scorched along the frontiers of the vision had when in my palm,

That seed, so small, so tender gave it all I had, indulgent balm.

It soothed the ache I had to grow a thing for just a time so short,

When measured up against the other aches I suffered just to sort,

With that seed, that seed so small, and others with their own ambitions,

All of us manic to sprout despite the toil of such an arduous mission.

Enjoying the journey when asked by another, under the surface a contrasting toll,

Taken, the joy, from our growing those seeds, and ironically opened other small holes.

No growth without pain, nor wisdom worth knowing,

Without hands and feet involved in one’s growing.

And ripened or foul the seed’s final fruit,

Created within you a strong, gnarled root.

As long as that root can travel and carry,

Any next venture your mind can swift marry.

Choose wiser this time, as time is but fixed.

How will you flower before life’s final twist?