I am a Seed

I can't remember when
or where I heard it,
but a friend,
and I know them,
but they told me I was a seed.

From which tree I fell, I
cannot tell.
From which flower I
was carried,
I cannot say.
From which grass that blows
in the breeze and browns
in the winter,
I truly cannot respond.

I wish I knew, though.
I wish I knew that I were inborn of some
greater purpose.
And perhaps I can serve some greater purpose still.

They say that I am planted,
and when I am planted, I stew.
I stew until the moment
that I become an itch.
I become an itch that can't be scratched.
Then, I stir.
I stir the soil around me
causing ripples in the earthen flesh.
People who are good enough
can see this. They can feel
the tiny convulsions underneath the surface.

They tell me that I'm fragile right now.
That if I were not grasped I would halt. I would never bear fruit.
Fruit. That is my purpose is it not?
Then again, I don't know whether I
should provide shade to allow
my offspring the natural cultivation,
if I should flower and be admired,
or give of my meat and flesh
to sustain generation after generation.

Eventually, I will become too large for the soft ground to hold.
And the, after I persist for hundreds of years, I will be struck to the death,
to rest upon my torn core and bleed out, tempered and soiled.

But, I am a seed, this much I know.
I do but sit and grow.


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