I am a slender thing, a
Wet small seed of self.
Layer upon layer of time
Blocks from me the surface of the earth.
The time is not yet.
I drink water from the roots of trees,
I rest in molecules of shine
That filtered down through dirt
Like white light through stained glass:
Warm, and comforting.
In the knowledge of all the time there is.
Rush is not a word
In the lexicon of my seedling self.
In their own time
And so I wait
With all the wisdom of my journey around, above,
And yet to come.
Neither growing nor asleep
A tiny source of light
Humming and sparking softly