The Flower

Those troublesome leaves are at it again;
there they are outside my window.
I hear them rustle and taunt
me as I sit

screened in by screens;
have you seen my face these days?
It is a woolly companion
whose music has chimed and changed—
repeating lines about loss and hope
and goodness in life
that springs from itself like a flowering seed.

What is it that flowers do?
Grow from within to without—
pushing through dirt and grain
to cool, blue peace.

But this old seed is rattling along.
Its hardness fermenting fragile life
and, with the weakness found,
searching to find which direction
will lead to sky
and which to sea.

There, beneath the ground,
shaking beneath footsteps,
the world is amplified;
the seed nestles in.