The Tree

In the hush of soil, where sun had never kissed,
She lay, a seed, soft-veined and clenched in silence,
Cradled by earth, forgotten by light,
Yet dreaming in the dark.

Rain came not in silver songs,
But in sorrow, drops of doubt and ache,
Washing over shell and soul alike.
The cold, the pressure, the weight of waiting,
Pressed inward, inward, until she cracked
Not from weakness,
But from the will to begin.

A root, trembling, reached into shadow,
Searching for something more solid than fear.
And another, then more, like whispers of "yes,"
Stretched into the dark with sacred defiance.
Below the world, she built herself a spine.

Then upward, a green whisper broke the surface,
Blind at first to sky and colour,
Only knowing that there was more
More than dust, more than depth,
More than what she’d been told she could be.

The sun was a stranger at first.
Its light stung her tender skin,
But she bore it,
And day by day, it warmed her shame
Into shimmer.

Storms came.
They always do.

Winds howled with old names,
Rain lashed with regret,
Lightning split the sky with doubt.
She bent, but did not break
Her roots, fed by every buried scar,
Held her steady through the fury.

Leaves unfurled, shy and shimmering,
Each one a lesson learned,
A wound grown over with gold.
She was not without blemish
She was beautiful because of them.

Birds came to nest in her arms,
Creatures found rest in her shade.
She was shelter now.
She was story.

No longer hidden, no longer seed,
She stood tall
A tree carved by the wind,
Crowned in sky and strength,
Every ring inside her
A year of rising.

She still remembered the darkness
It did not leave her.
But she no longer feared it.
It was part of her bark,
Part of her song.

And when the breeze came,
It moved through her limbs like laughter.

For she had grown
Not to escape the soil,
But to honour it.