To A Seed

To A Seed

Dot on the palm. rolling ink drop.

Apparent speck of nearly nothing,

What are you? Iota-small, pebbletight,

Are you waiting to burst at the sun,

To unfurl a request for love, a quest

For the benison of a distant fire, high hopes

for a dot?

                A fool I was to think that squinting

To meet you brought you near nothing. Eye is not

The measure of a dot. You are Nature’s

Eternal vernal prank – to be so feeble small

And yet so vital: life is let live by the surges

Of this pebble. Hearts beat or sink at the waving

Or wilting of the green masts you can hoist.

Your pillars limber up, rubber struts of the field,

Bending an infinite semiology, a fresh name

For every moment, unlexiconable.

                                                                Seedsprung,

Your leaf placards mean almost everything.

Announcing frailty and strength in the same breath,

Which is now my breath, which I use to speak of you.