Apple Seed

The tiny brown seed,
a vessel of potential,
fights through the damp earth.
Surrounded by decay,
yet still continuing to the heavens above.
Traversing the translucent roots of dense grasses
and the mycelia of the plethora of fungus.

At long last, dawn breaks, the seed breathes fresh air,
the bright young leaves
emblematic of a new beginning.

As the fine sands of time flow,
the weak sprout to a young sapling,
the young sapling, a mighty tree.
Each branch, a piece
of a grand eternity.

The maple autumn hues fade
into the stark, barren winter.
Surrounding life hides from the freezing air.
The rabbits in the ground,
the birds in knotted trees.
The tree embraces a deep sleep,
shedding its wilted leaves.

The skies are a pale blue,
the sun is bright,
At last, mother nature wakes.
Flowers bloom, the birds fly,
Hard-working bees take nectar for the hive,
Roots drink the pure melting snows.

The tree, regrows
Each leaf polished and patterned
Like fine Damascus steel.
The flaky, scaly bark
Hides a wondrous material.

Wood, great starter of civilization,
Marvel of the stone age,
Its sheer strength able to withstand
The battering waves of time.
Its use indispensable to humanity,
To the wealthy as to the poor.

The flowers wilt and shrink,
revealing a swelling ball.
With the shine of the red skin
more beautiful than gold.
Its sugars provide sustenance to all,
Even inspiring the mythology of old.

At last, it drops,
and starts rotting away,
Consumed by scavengers
by the end of the day.

All that remains is a buried seed.
A vessel of potential…