rest

somewhere
in the darkness
lies a tiny seed,
held
by the long fingers
of silence,

where roots grope
and seek relentlessly,
where ants gnaw
at what is,
where rain tickles
and hugs the parched soil,
where grains of earth glow
with their fury restrained,
where the breath is distilled
to its essence,

somewhere there
in the darkness,
lies a tiny seed,
with nothing to do,
but rest
in the vortex of silence.