By Francis Scudellari
A seed, windblown or dropped,
Careless seeming planted,
Or with unknown intent,
May, in time, send down roots,
Nurtured grow from thin shoot
To sapling, shy feelers
Twisting ever deeper
Through chambers, arteries,
Intertwining muscle,
Like loose sod, pulled tightly,
Held close, at first fearful
Of bursting, foreign-filled
Then accustomed hoping
The bloom above e'er thrives …
These invading tendrils
Never release their grip
2 comments:
I read this poem late at night. It helps me to look forward to tomorrow. Thank you.
Hi Rob, I'm glad you liked the poem. Thanks for stopping by and leaving a comment.
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