Underfoot. Overhead. Or broadside.
From the front or behind; From
all quarters all at once . . . .
Forecasted or hindcasted, it may be
kindled naturally or abnormally, yet
the choice is Devastation’s.
Some may whimper and shrink from the thought;
Others thrive on it.
Only a seed showed the middle way.
That seed lay undiscovered in a seafarer’s pocket,
century after century, irritated by the coarse cloth.
But that seed at last woke with a light kiss and
an urgent, unstoppable desire to drink
water and light.
It withstood civil wars and world wars that left
mounds of skulls and half-hearted vows beside it;
It waited a millennium to experience and contribute again
It anticipated a time to move, yes, to move,
to shake its fronds in winds, gentle and warm and
even loaded with sand from hospitable land.
If that seed waited another thousand years,
what would be different?
Devastation does not change, does it?
It may come from underfoot, overhead, or broadside
It may come from in front or behind
It may come from all quarters all at once.
Devastation has such rights.
Ours may be to learn from the seed.