The Seed

This poem is a 12 stanza free-verse that explores how God’s Word germinates, often unnoticed, in the human soul.

The Seed

By Amy M. Foreman

But he that received seed into the good ground is he that heareth the word, and understandeth it; which also beareth fruit, and bringeth forth, some an hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty.  Matthew 13:23

I inter this one along with his brothers and sisters,

All of them dead, wrinkled, dry, and spent–

Then cover their husks with earth

And wait.

 

Next Wednesday, here they resurrect in bodies

Nothing like the ones I laid to rest.

But greening life unfurling over that same ground that smothered them

Last week.

 

Where is the seed? I wonder, and digging shows that

It has been consumed by what it started.

Now verdant growth delineates its forgotten

Shallow grave.

 

And for some time I don’t recall the humble start

To which my viridescent vine’s indebted.

‘Til autumn, when the flower’s passed and pods can shell out in

My hand.

 

There, held in dusty palm I meet the progeny of

Last spring’s burial–

How like their father, and how many!  Separated by that living vegetable

And time.

 

“The Seed is the Word” I know. I see it happen

As it plants itself in my soul’s garden patch.

Just words on wrinkled paper, ancient script seems long

Since dead.

 

But something new grows up in that same spot,

Some living thing that I had not expected

That seems not myself or what had grown there

Before.

 

It’s not the seed, but somehow hearkens back to my ingestion of

The pages in that dusty tome.

And I forget the exact words that sank into my being until

One day,

 

When an accusation flies my way–though wrongly hurled

By one who should have loved me.

And my response, unexpected, is not my practiced

Comeback.

 

What is my deal? I wonder.  Where’s the anger and vexation

I should feel right now?  Why the

Peace I can’t quite understand, and the total lack

Of pique?

 

Then I see them in my soul, breaking from the pods, thirty, sixty, and

A hundred:  “Great peace have they which love Thy law, and nothing

Shall offend them.”  “ Blessed are ye, when men . . .

Revile you.”

 

The seed I found in age-old text–now separated by the verdure growing

In my spirit, lush and full–is now

Mature and bearing fruit that looks just like

Its Father.

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