Yeah, I know, all the world needs is another “seed metaphor” poem, right? Well, tough.
We were small and hard.
We lived this way for years:
enclosed in coats impervious
to water, air, and light, drawing
from the pockets of sustenance
tucked inside of us. We survived.
Some of us lay dormant as the earth
froze around us, warmed, froze again.
After many seasons the cycle wore us
down, dissolved our hard skins.
Then our first roots, fragile as gossamer,
reached into the earth.
Some of us drifted in salty seas under
the white hot sky, bobbing without
course for weeks, months. At last
a small island, a spit of sand.
There we opened up and received
life from the sun.
And some of us needed fire to begin.
Borne on cones that refused
to drop, we merged with our parent
trunks, lay embedded there
till the day flames raced across
the forest floor with terrifying speed
and purpose. In the heat and smoke
we were released and by the thousands
jumped, exploded, into the ashy air.
Now we are the lilies of the field,
the palms arching up from the sand.
We are the pines on the dry mountain.