The Beneath

Seeds don't sleep; they don't dream of the sun they cannot see. They simply soften, awaken their first hunger, send tender threads downward into the patient dark.

We call it waiting. They call it work— the ceaseless opening, the reaching, root-whispers against stone until the wall learns its own impermanence.

There is no spectacular moment when the becoming is complete. Only the accumulation of small yeses, the body saying yes yes yes to the impossible arithmetic of growth.

We stand in the light and call it knowing. But the real knowledge lives below— the grammar of persistence, the dialect of things that cannot hurry because they were never taught to rush.