Seeds
When the acorns fall from the great oak,
Their landing is nothing of which to joke,
Cushioned, softly on the delicate lush green,
In the dirt, between weeds, out of sight, not seen,
Stuck in the long grass, or laid bare on the rubble,
Early life can be a dream,
Or nothing but trouble.
Nature has its methods of finding a way,
For some it's all games, time just to play,
Then there's the dread of the morn, and the pain it delivers,
The sweat, the tears, the blood, and the shivers.
Nothing to see, no end of tunnel in sight,
Eternal dusk with no morning light,
As early shoots start to form, they adapt to their setting,
Some struggle for sunlight, others count on the blessing,
But it not the seeds that bloom early, and brightly with ease,
That get from this world, all that they please,
As grit maybe the stuff from which others of born,
It surrounds them until they are done with the scorn,
And they finally say, "Enough is enough!"
It's time to get going, time to get tough,
The world is a field into which we are thrown,
But we all have say in who throws the last stone,
It does not matter where, the acorn fell,
When the feeling is right, It'll break out of its shell,
And the grit into which it was initially sown,
Is the stuff that it's made of, its heart, and its home,
Let it serve each day, as a reminder, a charm,
Used each day to fire its calm.
From tiny acorns, more great oaks take root,
There are all equal, and that includes you,
It's not where you start, that determines your worth,
It how you contribute, and what you give to the Earth,
As an acorn, it doesn't matter where you fall,
Where you are at end, is all that matters at all.