Fulfillment falls in due season.
From green to gold,
then sere and withered with my reason.
My reason? Reason.
For I know this too will pass.
It always does,
this creeping frost,
this frigid lull between
what has perished
and what stirs in the womb.
Yet I still search and search
the retreating earth,
digging through desires and debris,
brushing aside the amassing precipitation,
frantic for the trace of some latency.
But even then,
what can one do with a sleeping seed?
Hope, not a promise,
is sleeping in uncertainty.
The future, and her secrets,
will not blossom before their time.
A Sleeping Seed
