What the Seed Knows
Plant a seed of hope
The seed doesn’t ask permission.
It just splits its face open
and from that wound
comes a green stick
that doesn’t know yet
it’s going to be a tree.
This week I put money
where my mouth has been quiet.
I signed papers with my name
like I was someone
who knows what he’s doing.
The ink was blue.
My hand shook.
My mother said: are you sure?
I told her: no.
I told her: I’m going anyway.
There are two kinds of fear.
The kind that makes you walk
the same five rooms
until you wear down the floor.
And the kind that wakes you at three in the morning
because your life
is starting to look like
something you chose yourself.
That fear is good.
It’s the fear the bird has
before the first jump.
It’s the fear of water
when it discovers
it can fly
if it becomes something else.
Three days ago I didn’t know
what “conversion rate” meant.
Now I use it
like my life
always spoke
this strange language.
The oak doesn’t remember
when it was just
a small scared thing
split in half
in the dark earth.
But I will remember
this Monday.
The day I became
strange in my own kitchen.
The day fear
changed its last name.
The seed knew
it was going to hurt.
That’s why it didn’t wait for permission.
Andre! Loved this one. I am wishing you nothing but the best. I'm thinking it it a house? Anyways. Hope everything is going well!
Andre! Good to hear from you. Here’s to all the seeds growing