I am a seed

I am a seed
and I am still growing
through mud and rock.
I was almost too dry, 
closed too tightly, 
but I can feel the shell giving,
just a little,
and cracking. 
I sat in a pocket of tears, 
and now there is moisture 
seeping in. Someday, 
maybe tomorrow,
my tiny shoot will 
open hands, to push 
through the mud and rock
and make a space to move into.
And the next day, I will stretch a little more, until
I break the surface, and then
I will feel my roots grow strong, from the seed I am, 
and my leaves unfold, from the Sun that is,
and I will grow and grow and grow.
There will be cold days, and snowy nights, and dry, hot summers;
there will be times when nourishment is scarce,
and months when I cannot help but shoot up farther
and faster;
From seed to shoot to sproutling...
and if I'm lucky, and tend my self with care, 
I'll bloom—

Yes, bloom, and be grateful for the grace of maturity.
Bloom, and know the life-struggle, 
the dance with the elements, 
the drawing up and in of air and water, 
of heat, and food, of care, 
that all was meant and made for the moment at hand,
the fulfillment of purpose, the joy of knowing, at last 
at last, the fruit buried within, 
attracting all the stars to look, inviting all the bees to taste,
honeyed and sticky with sweet-life-song-sex.