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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Comments

Anonymous said…
Gorgeous!!! As especially resurrection can be.
July 13, 2015 at 8:54 AM
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