Young Seed

You miss the day you grew from bough’s high stand
Where birds did sing and wind hath seldom strode.
You bloomed in shades contrasting this dry land
Where to the wind hath you so kindly towed.
Your lovely flower rose neatly through a pod
Awaiting for the rhythm of the wind.
You aimed your drying wings up towards your god,
And thought the ground would make a lovely friend.
But here you lie upon stale rocks of fall,
Now dull without the lively jades of spring.
You tried to stretch up toward the sun, so tall,
Before the cracks of winter surely sing.
So now you’ve got a home among the rocks.
Do swear to be prepared next time fate knocks.