The Breaking and the Seed

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