Every plant a poem.
Every poem a plant.

In sifted soil,
a seed will grow,
The spindle uncoils
past the reeds.

At long last,
a ray of sun
is what it needs
to cast away
its embryo;
to flee the past
into the day.

As time does flow,
its roots dig deep;
its stalk breathes
long and slow.

It does not know
why it was sewn
or why the wind
does blow.

One day a whisper,
the next a shout,
until one day,
the plant’s ripped out,
from the earth,
its mortal clay,
its place of birth,
its final resting place.

A life is as long
as a life is lived;
A gift that cannot
be ungived.

Given all of this,
what’s the difference
between my breath
and the wind?

Where does a poem end?
Where does a plant begin?