The plant is dead
the hot sun beats down on its dried head
it's once lush and verdant leaves are wilted and brown
You might pass this pathetic plant and frown
It might make you a bit sad
remembering the glory it once had
But you don't see what I see
Hiding there, amongst the remaining green
The tiny seed, lying there alone to seek it's fate

The rains come, and the deep chill and howling winds
The seed silently endures all
The soft kiss of the first white snowflakes
And the seed pushes deeper into it's soil bed
The seed, thus hidden away,
will survive the bleak winter months

All the while, it dreams
Of bees tickling it's petals
The warm sun caressing it's outstretched leaves
The fresh, cool, rainwater, seeping through the soil
To be eagerly gulped up by it's long toes
The winds and the frost
Cannot last forever
Soon they fade away

The first warm searching fingers of sunlight
The trilling birdsong
Fresh scented breezes
The melting earth
They stir the soul of the seed and it begins to change
Where once it was afraid, and hid itself away
It now emerges slowly from it's husk
Reaching tiny fingers towards the sky
And long toes deeper into the earth

It unfurls tiny leaves
Reaching, searching for the warmth of it's dreams
Gently encouraged by the soft breeze
It grows by leaps and bounds
Each falling raindrop
A new experience brings
Each kiss of sunlight
Expansion and growth
The tiny seed has become a small weed

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Aequitas, in the year 458 AD.