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  • Leah Van Someren

We are Seeds, You and Me

You are a seed.

You are a seed, small and mighty, yet never not seen.

A small compact case of unlimited potential.

Potential to grow and become, a sprout brought forth by the fracture of your own shell.

The shell once meant for protection, dissolved by dirt and erosion, water and worm.

Water from on high, much like water from your eyes will cause you to grow.

You are a seed.

You are a seed of roots that run deep.

Roots committed to digging down deeper at any sign of drought.

Committed anchors that don’t give way to toppling trees but hold secure.

Secure enough to grow tall as tall can be.

You are a seed.

And I, too, am a seed.

I am a seed that knows nothing of just how long the branches are stored up in me.

Branches that reach from one side of west to the other side of east.

Reaching to hold and be held.

Held by the soil that birthed me and the sky immersing me.

I am a seed.

I am a seed who knows the taste of sunlight, swaying on the tip of a branch from a tree who came before me.

Who’s sat in the deep darkness of soil, feeling cracking and breaking of shell.

Breaking and dying as seeds do, to bring forth the first sweet sprout of new life.

A sweet sprout that will one day be a tree full of more and more seeds.

I am a seed.

We both are a seeds.

We are seeds, an infinite number of genesis trees that are both you and both me.

Trees sprouted from other seeds dwelling on the inside of we.

Other seeds that, as we flourish into trees, will fall to the ground in the form of seeds.

Falling, a piece will nestle into the birthing dirt from which we came.

And another piece of me will die, break open and grow a tree, just like you, again.

We are seeds.


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