The soil does not ask
whether the seed is ready.
It darkens,
it holds,
it waits.

Roots move first,
quietly,
like a thought
that hasn't learned its name.

Above ground
a thin green thread
unfurls into air,
not yet a stem,
not yet a promise,
just the beginning of reach.

Growth is not sudden.
It is a slow arrangement
of patience and hunger,
light and shadow,
loss and renewal.

One day,
without noticing when it happened,
you are taller
than your yesterday.