Cultivation
Like the oak tree longs for itself
so much that it reaches back
to pull from nothingness the acorn
full of potential, how it helps to create
the seed of itself, how it wants
so badly to exist that it draws forth
the seedling, whispers to it
words of encouragement from the present
where it is a fully realized tree,
perhaps my ultimate self, resting
in some future perfected state,
coaxes from me what it longs to be.
And during those long, dark nights
when I am tossed in confusion,
she strokes my hair, watches over me
as I cry. Maybe the small voice
I finally hear that keeps me from sinking
into complete despair is hers, the soft
assurance that she is waiting for me
to come join her there.
