Deep, deep below in the rich dark umber, a tiny kernel lies. In fetal position it waits. Listening. Alert. Immobile. Nutrients abound in the fertile soil and are proffered to the embryo. The cocoon of luscious earth shelters as the seed abides. Heavenly rains fall, softening the crusty clay, trickling down, down, down to baptize the little one.
In a flash, lightning strikes. A switch flips. A fuse is lit. The call to awaken resounds. Life is set in motion.
Unwitnessed above ground, the thin sheath crackles. Sprouts play peekaboo through their newfound portals. Pecking and poking, shoots push their greedy snouts to widen the crevasses, eager to burrow their way to the surface. Such strong yearning to wave a friendly greeting to life, to breathe the crisp air and feel the sun’s rays.
Up the tendrils climb, inch by inch, an inexorable onward march, while the obsolescent shell, so willing to encapsulate and protect the nascent bud, shrivels, dries up, and falls away. It is no longer useful to the seedling but is revered as a holy vessel for the growing. Delicate pale green arms reach up and up, strengthening in determination as they progress.
At last, the miracle happens. The impenetrable sod parts like the Red Sea, making way for that insistent knocking at the door. The young plant celebrates its victorious breakthrough, free at last to experience the scents and sights and tastes and sounds. To bask in the sun’s emanations and waft gently in the springy breeze.
So much to enjoy before its return to the rich dark umber.