Beneath

Deep in the compressed dark, roots drink stone, a patient thirst. No witness to this work— the soil holds its breath.

We measure growth by what rises, the green flag of arrival, never knowing the miles of ache that watered these green hours.

There is no ceremony here, no sound but the slow push through the earth's dark hall, seeking what feeds.

The seed knew better than the sun: all becoming begins where we cannot see, in the grammar of bone and soil.