A bulb, not of light, but of seed,rich with fertility and grainy un-grown potential.
Dirty, rounded, stone-like, staining fingertips.A weighted heaviness in the palm of the hand.
Its denseness like bone, like thick, hardened clay,like iron boldness.
Buried far beneath a thin surface of grass, beneath.Four inches maybe.
Six inches maybe.Ten miles. Maybe that too.
The mass of black earth smothering,blocking the air from reaching such depths,
thick and moist and oppressive.Entombed for the wait,
the long hibernation of now.There is small chance for early sprouting,
not when the cold grip of wind still whips above,whips the grass, scourges the top layer of soil,
forbids something so fragile from exposure.
There is no opportunity for full articulation in winter.
The potential on hold, the possibility still buried.Stems, leaves, berries, petals,
sunk in the ground, unborn, as yet unready,concealed in the extreme. Patient, still.
Still under.Waiting while other things freeze and rain falls,
and skies fall and things fall down.That unborn seedling, the unseen greenness,
the undiscovered newness inching upward.Its strength unknown, heart untested.
Up it moves. Closer it travels,until bravery overcomes density,
through the darkness of earth and dirt andancient deposited layer upon layer of sediment,
toward its destined realization.
Up. Out. Until finally,