The Shape of Becoming

The soil pressed firm against my skin,

A cradle dark, a hush, a weight.

Yet something stirred, a voice within,

A hunger vast, a pulsing fate.

I drank the rain, I stole the sun,

Unfolding slow, unseen, unknown.

Each tendril stretched, each root begun,

A quiet war beneath the stone.

I was a sprout, a fragile thing,

Green and trembling, soft with doubt.

The wind would bend, the storms would sting,

Yet still, I pressed my being out.

Seasons called and I obeyed,

Leaves unfurled, then turned to gold.

The years would carve, the sun would fade,

And still, I grew, though tired and old.

Change arrived with whispered steps,

A shifting tide, a quiet theft.

The branches shed what they once kept,

Making space for what was left.

The weight of loss, the chill of fear,

Each falling leaf, a ghost, a scar.

Yet in the void, new roots appear,

Stronger still, though stretched afar.

I learned that endings birth beginnings,

That shattered things can bloom anew.

The moon will rise despite its thinning,

The tide will turn and start anew.

I was a tree, I stood so tall,

But even trees must bow and break.

My bark would crack, my limbs would fall,

Yet still, the earth, my soul, would take.

I shed myself, I turned to dust,

A cycle vast, a woven thread.

And in my place, a seed would trust,

To rise once more where I had bled.

So be the root, be the sky,

Be the storm that shapes the land.

Let yourself dissolve, untie,

And in your fall, let life expand.

For growth is loss, and loss is change,

And change is all that we become.

A fleeting form, a boundless range,

An echo of what’s still to come.