The Seedling

By Sakshat Rao

Within the spongy soil it grew, scrambling to the crust

Like the waves of gushing waters, through stone and dirt and dust.

The stubborn and spiteful stones obstructed its ascent,

But the seedling paid no heed, for its eyes were for sunshine’s lust.

Right below the surface, when its head felt the sky,

It surged above the turf and lifted itself high,

Its leaves swept and skimmed with the breeze like dancers,

As exuberant and cheerful as the wings of a butterfly.

Its little stem of emerald, tender as a flake,

Standing tall and bold, afraid of no quake.

Its leaves mirrored the sunshine upon its rooted stem,

And it dazzled like the facade of a sunlit lake.

Its leaves of shady hues, curling like a child,

Sailing with the breeze. Oh! So crisp and mild!

So brilliant does it seem with the golden blaze;

The seedling blushed like a bride as it giggled and smiled.

It dreamed of its ripened fruits, it dreamed of its sturdy bole,

It dreamed of the watchful owls that would peep through its hole,

It dreamed of its countless boughs that would shelter the nests,

It dreamed of everything and… Oh! What’s that under my sole?!

Under the rubber it fell and abandoned all its gloss,

Forgetting who it would be and forgetting who it was.

Stamped, in the mud, it wept and cried,

For I erased an entire lifetime within a second’s pause.

By Sakshat Rao