You felt nothing coming, a horizon of sameness
that pushed your heart into the ground like a seed.
Little did you see the tendrils rooting outward,
green and white with expectancy,
all the hope you had to lose to become.
Is the kernel bursting open a death,
or an orchard of apples out of winter?
To become the dream, lie down.
Let the birds bury you with the makings of their nests.
I promise you, one season later or two,
you will arise no longer the outer husk but the tree,
a gleam of harvest in your eye.
View the painting that inspired the poem.