The Poetry Of Life

Let the plant wither if it must, the seed fell days ago;

Stuck in a pod, half blind, trapped in a cold puddle,

Like some muddied, pock-marked, leftover snowball.

Too dismal to throw.

I have nothing to do but hibernate.

What am I some kind of iced-over, frost bitten hedgehog?

I’m shrinking! 

How can this be with all these trickles?

I’m down to a husk of a thing, rattling around like some blind-sided snail.

I’m dying out here!

Or  maybe drying; at least things are improving,

I mean how can I do anything about it?

OUCH!

I’ve been crunched by a rabid runner and stuffed into a furrow!

I think I’ll cry...yes...

Wait a minute, what is that streaming stuff?

Is it dirt?  Is it Sun?  Is it Rain?

I’m growing! 

Help! I’m being resurrected!

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