Deep beneath the frozen ground,
A tiny seed is waiting, bound.
No light to guide, no sun to see,
Just weight and dark and mystery.
It doesn’t feel like growing yet,
In cold and damp and heavy debt.
But pressure is the gardener’s hand,
To push the life from fallow land.
And when the green begins to peek,
It isn’t fragile, isn’t weak.
For every inch it climbs toward blue,
The roots grew deeper, strong and true.
So if you feel you’re buried deep,
With promises you cannot keep,
Remember this: you aren’t entombed,
You’re planted, waiting to be bloomed.
Author’s Note
We often mistake a season of “darkness” or “stagnation” for an ending. When life feels heavy and we feel buried by our circumstances, it’s easy to believe we are being hidden away or forgotten. This poem is a reminder that the most vital growth happens where no one can see it. The struggle against the weight of the soil is exactly what gives the flower the strength to eventually break through. You aren’t being finished; you are being prepared.
