A seed lie in my hand, shrivelled and lined,
Such humble home for cosmic mystery.
Yet, deep within this scrap of dust we find
The essence of a world. Of limits free
It can extend its scope to cedar's span,
Or etch the subtle beauties of a rose.
But, analyse this seed, it yields no plan.
Where wait the colours that the artist knows?
Where lurks the scent that rides the Summer breeze?
Are they but whispers waiting on a breath
Whose potent magic activates and frees
This wrinkled granule from the dreams of death?
Know you, small seed, the seed that knows us all,
Still point of our creation and recall?
