What Yet May Be

a dying seed fell
to the ground
unnoticed by the masses
who walked on by
as if this tiny grain
meant nothing
not much to see
this remnant of 
a healthy plant
it’s brown pale cover
blended 
with the blades of grass
no use in shouting
they look down
puzzled at my alarm
a boot tread
pushes the fragile hull
containing the future
deeper in the soil
curiously
where it needs to be
wanderers by the dozens
continue past
for days
even weeks
unaware of the life
taking root
and breaking the soil
it remains to be seen
if this tender dream
becomes
a greater reality
the odds seem
slim
and yet
only when the seed
falls dead
on the ground
risking its potential
is its future
possible

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