There comes a time in every small seed’s course
when greenness births to shoot out from its skin.
Until that spurt, all latency’s resource
is dormant, held in check — a life within.
And now I’m like a seed which you awoke;
into my downward darkness you brought light.
When timid leaves have through earth’s surface broke,
my tendrons with the sun will reunite.
But patience is the trait which must be used.
(This seed has been deprived of fertile rhyme).
Rough handling means its heart is badly bruised —
emerging from the skein of wintertime.
If you will put your juices with my seed
then stratospheric growth is guaranteed.
© Alan Morrison, 2015