Lost Seed

I thought I knew what roots were mine -

how this twisting story made some sense,

how, when, and why it would turn out fine -

Yet somehow, in gazing upon my tale

I see not the trunk, nor bark and branch

Which I was sure thus bore me without fail;

These limbs of wood, holding soil and sky

were but imagined, husks of thought

And all at once I cannot answer, who am I.

The ground I grasped has fallen fast away -

And I am set awhirl upon tempests, cold -

Dreaming of finding kind earth some day.

Not a tree, grounded, noble and proud -

Not even a sapling, humble, growing, here -

I am a seed upon a storm, crying aloud.

Roots of air - for old names have, hollow, fled.

Branches of wind - still yearning for the heights -

Wings of hope - to land at last outside my head.