Ephemeral

The seed took root
beneath the box.
The seed, in fact, was there
before the box was lowered.
No confusion, though.
The shoot, blind,
knew which way to go,
and curled easily round the wood
up through the loose soil
to the surface.


It was a beautiful flower,
but it didn't last for long.
The wind blew,
scattering petals to
I don't know where.
The flower died, of course.


In the grave,
all that is left of the root
is a feeling,
as the seed,
well compressed,
sprouts poetry.