Did you have dreams in the sod where you lay,
Of resting in your mother’s pod each day,
Before sleeping through winter’s chill?
And now alone, snug under frost’s still
With wriggling worms for company at dawn,
You wait for the first kiss of moisture drawn
That wakes metabolism in the warming bed,
And bursts your coat with a white rootlet spread
Bristling with hairs, burrowing deep down,
Sucking the goodness around, a crown
Of yellow cotyledons and a shoot
Breaking out, whose spear tip knows its route
Pushing grains aside until breaking free,
To bask in the sun’s rays, oh, such glee
And digging dimples in the seedman’s face,
Your day unfolds with gentle grace.

Most times when I look at a tree, it’s only a tree, but occasionally I see a living being lifting its arms like a shaman in a trance.
Most times when I look at a dog, it’s only a dog, but sometimes I see in its face a dear relative gazing back with a loving smile.
But a seed in my palm is always a seed that never loses its seediness. It reaches back to the first cell, forward to my embryo, and to the uttermost speck of life on the planet in the future.