Garden of Stone

Who wants to understand the middle of anything?

The beginning?

The end?

We float like pollen from the plant to the earth.

Remembering nothing

But leaving,

And landing in our new homes.

 

We cannot recall our journey,

Or the beautiful breezes upward.

We only lay here,

Waiting for more tears

To fall on to our seed.

 

No complete conception.

No growth into the sky.

Only lying in the soil,

With other plants growing strong

above us.