You are plotting like the seed in the grave.
You are the overturned grass in the fallow field.
You are buried below the roots of trees,
And you can taste the blight that threatens them,
And the sap that gives them power.
You are the blight, the roots, the sap,
And the dynamo of countless buds.
You are waiting unborn, unbound, unbegun.
With your whorled hands, with your blind eyes,
You are waiting for the sun.
Poem by Mary Clark