The fire burned hot on forest floor,
Scorching bark and nothing more,
Small seeds pop from redwood cone,
It’s time to root and make a home.
The dark, rich soil, the perfect bed,
Cleared by flame, by drizzle fed,
Tender roots start digging down,
To anchor kings of forest crown.
The first few years are hard indeed,
So little sun, my leaves to feed.
I grow toward light, to find a place,
Where I can grow with rapid pace.
A lucky break, a giant comes down,
Clearing a path from sky to ground,
I’m ready, waiting, is this my turn?
I must get big before I burn.
Growing quickly to fill the hole,
My crown shoots up to reach my goal,
A prince I am. A king I’ll be,
Tall and proud. A Redwood Tree.
Words fail me, that is an exquisite poem!
LikeLiked by 1 person
So easy to picture that little seed’s eager to burst onto the scene, ready to add it’s rich lushness to the forest green.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I’m glad you enjoyed it. After responding to yours I had to try for one of my own.
LikeLike