In the hush between dawn and dew,
a seed split open quietly, true,
and the world, impatient, spun ahead
while it stretched its fragile head.
The wind whispered, grow and it did,
sprouting dreams it never bid,
roots clutching earth like fading hands,
learning the pulse of shifting lands.
Rain fell faster than it used to fall,
seasons blurred, no spring at all.
Leaves outgrew their shade too soon,
chasing suns that forgot the moon.
Birds no longer built, just passed,
their songs too brief, their shadows cast.
And still, the tree kept reaching high,
a witness to its own goodbye.
The bark turned silver, veins turned stone,
it stood in crowds, yet felt alone.
For even growth, when rushed by time,
can feel like loss dressed up as climb.
And when the sky forgot to stay,
and roots forgot the taste of clay,
the tree looked down, then up, then through,
and whispered, I grew, but what did I grow into?
December, 2025
