POEM - The Seed’s Secret

Not in the sun’s gold, nor the rain’s soft fall,

Not in the boast of branches, strong and tall,

Does my true substance lie. The outer eye

Perceives but a dry speck ‘neath a vast sky,

A trifle for a jay’s beak to ignore,

A brittle, silent, little nothing more.

But I am keeper of a whispered theme,

The architect of a forgotten dream.

My secret is not what I am, but hold:

A map of destiny, a tale untold

In the close confines of a vaulted room

Where life awaits beyond the frost and gloom.

I am a world contained, a folded sphere

Of emerald forests soon to appear,

Of roots that feel their way through future stone,

And one white blossom to the sun upthrown.

I am the memory of an ancient tree

Whose rustling leaves once sang in harmony

With winds that now but whisper at my shell;

I am the promise that it has to tell.

The patient hope of seasons yet to be

Is cradled here in quiet custody.

No hurried clock, no calendar’s demand

Can stir the slumbering future I command.

I feel the chill of winter’s long retreat,

The probing thaw of spring’s persistent feet.

The dark is not a prison, but a grace,

A necessary, still, and sacred space

Where, molecule by molecule, I weave

The form of what I utterly believe.

I drink the silence till it starts to sing,

And from that music, I commence to bring

A tiny fracture, minuscule and green—

The bravest, smallest thing yet ever seen—

A spiral questing for a hidden sun,

A revolution quietly begun.

Then, cell by cell, the great surrender starts;

I break the boundaries of my own sweet hearts.

The shell that shielded must now split in two,

A sacrifice to make the promise true.

The root must descend, embracing the unknown,

To find its anchor in the deep, dark stone.

The shoot must climb, though weight of earth is there,

And push through darkness to the waiting air.

This paradox is what I understand:

To gain the light, you first must kiss the land.

To truly live, the self must be unmade,

A willing price for being must be paid.

And when I rise, a fragile, verdant spear,

To meet the world I’ve whispered to all year,

I do not boast of what I have achieved,

For I was never truly unbelieved.

The sun will warm my newly-opened eyes,

The wind will teach my tender leaves to sigh.

I’ll wear the rain like diamonds on my skin,

And from without, I’ll let new life begin.

But deep within my core, I’ll hold the same

Eternal, undiminished, secret flame:

The pattern of the oak, the rose, the weed—

The potent, silent, and most sacred seed.

Short Summary:

This poem personifies a seed, exploring its hidden potential not as a passive object but as a keeper of a profound secret: the complete blueprint for life. It describes the journey from dormant state to germination, emphasizing the necessity of darkness, patience, and the courageous act of breaking open to achieve growth. The secret is not merely life, but the contained memory, destiny, and transformative power held within its tiny form, culminating in the understanding that true fulfillment requires a surrender of the self.