Poetry

The Seed

I remember when,

You held my hand,

And you pressed a seed,

Into my palm, gently.

 

But now I am surprised,

Because I didn’t bleed.

 

It was a small seed,

Very small,

Laying on my palm,

Undisturbed.

 

A breeze blew,

But the seed never escaped,

And that’s when I knew,

So I planted the seed.

 

But now I am surprised,

That it never flew away.

 

It took some time,

There was a lot of dirt,

A lot of shoveling,

But I didn’t care,

Because the seed never blew away.

 

Alas, it was all done,

I looked up, sweating,

To see you look the other way.

 

But now I am surprised,

That it was sweat instead of tears,

But not surprised,

That you were looking the other way.

 

I tugged your arm,

And pointed to the seed,

Now buried underneath.

It was deep down,

Covered in ugly soil,

Hidden from the Sun,

And also the moon.

 

But still it survived,

And I was surprised.

 

The seed sprouted,

Making its way to the surface,

Where it can alas see the Sun,

And also the moon

 

But they seemed to kill it,

And I was surprised.

 

I tugged your arm,

Even though you were looking my way,

And I pointed to the seed,

Which is now an unripe plant.

 

But you shook your hand off,

And stepped away,

Until the only things with me,

Were the plant and your footprints.

 

Time passed,

The unripe plant ripened,

And it was now a flower,

But before it could blossom,

It already wilted.

 

I tugged your arm,

But it was only the air,

No longer warm,

Because you’re no longer there.

 

I look at the flower,

Now dead and frail,

I water it with tears,

Wishing it were a seed again.

 

But watering dead flowers,

Won’t bring them

Back to life

Again.

 

                                                                         ~Aleena Kuriakose

                                                                              NJ, United States

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