I hear glass breaking,
or maybe it\'s just my heart.
A billion leaves fall from the trees,
a quiet storm of resignation,
and I realize autumn
is less about the colors,
the crackling of leaves,
and more about the human condition.
.
We are so weary,
utterly exhausted,
dragging ourselves through days
that taste like rust,
with dreams that hang by threads,
fading like the last light
on a November afternoon.
.
But there’s that little seed inside us,
a stubborn thing,
begging to die
so that it can split open,
reborn into a new green life,
pushing its way up,
cracking the cold earth,
reaching for a beam of sun
like a lifeline.
.
I am that seed,
a whisper of defiance,
but the way up through the soil
is a battle,
each inch a war.
There are rocks, large and hard,
ancient and unyielding,
blocking my path,
and the clouds
hover heavy and gray,
unenthusiastic about
gifting me rain.
.
There’s that sound again—
glass breaking, sharp and sudden—
and I realize
my heart is a seed too,
cradled in a fragile shell,
aching to shatter,
to burst from its own prison
and find something worth
rising for.
.
I push, and it hurts.
The dirt is cold,
and the sun is a rumor
above the blackness.
But I keep going
because that’s what seeds do—
they fight,
they rise,
even when it’s senseless,
even when the rocks
mock their effort.
.
The sound of breaking glass
echoes in the marrow of my being,
a reminder
that growth is a kind of violence,
a kind of breaking,
and sometimes,
that’s the only way
to make it to the light.
.
I am the seed,
my heart the glass,
my roots tangled with doubt,
but the green is in me,
waiting,
straining for that one beam,
that one breath of rain.
.
I push up,
past the rocks,
past the cold,
through the breaking,
and I hope,
someday,
to become more
than a seed
lost in the dark.
.
© R. Gordon Zyne