Just as the mountains slowly creep as we sleep and blink our eyelids closed
so too do we grow—see the seed is not dormant but ever growing.
springs trickle through the timid cracks until suddenly the seed is only recognizable as a sprout.
now green and blooming, we don’t remember where the mountains once stood
because now they stand boldly behind us—raising us to stand sacredly in the soil underneath,
ever stretching our roots in accord with the pulse at our back.
standing firm and still, but never sleeping.
always growing and always watered and always etching closer and closer to that place-
that place which all the trees and flowers whisper about.