How many times shall I fall
without divining what has thwarted me?

As often as I turn and retrace my way,
I find it is void of any outer, unusual obstacle.

When again I rise, and find I’ve felt no impact against my baffled brow.
How is it then I sense my fall and my own descent?

When the blind seed-life in me turns green shoots towards the light and heat,
I know joy in growing.

When the barren earth-vessel in me receives the life-giving rain to it’s root,
I know satisfaction comes to the thirsty.

My singular seed had fallen.
I was unaware of it’s small, shelled presence.

It’s soil space was at once
claimed and complete, but apparently vacant.

Though the paradoxical lesson may seem slow and lonely,
the teacher’s love is patient and real.

Authenticity grows from an inner nature’s call,
and there is no true wildness in the taste of grafted fruit.

While the domestic root may suck dry a man-ordered earth,
I shall bear only the vine-ripened berries of my own meager, but awesome birth.