I think this is the seed (see what I did there?) of what will be a longer poem about how growth is also loss, how there is a grieving that comes with any change, a moment of giving up the potential for the actualization of the thing. But because I am afraid of writing nature poetry, I will have to badass it up with swears. Because, as we have shown, that is how that is done.
Mourning the tight seed
What is this tender chaos
Sprung from a dark bed?
An autobiographical short poem a day (except when I don't).
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