Grow

Here I hide, underneath

dirt fertilized and doused

in water. I am still a seed,

staring up at the surface

from my indent.

"Grow," she urges, wiping

muddy and tattered gloves

across her face.

Sprigs of morning glory

poke out of the ground

beside me, obedient

and green. They

chant with her,

"grow!" Ignorant, happy.

But I am not ready.

Soon their flowers will blossom

bluer than the speckled bird

shrilly chirping from her

tree branch, squeaking

orders like a freckle-feathered

drill sergeant. The taller we

grow, the fatter the worms

she can harvest for her babies.

We are surrounded by thirsty

weeds and hungry beetles, stomachs

rumbling at the thought of our

pretty, defenseless petals.

Our purpose is to feed

every creature around us,

our meals secondhand

flavor for our predators.

I will not beg to be devoured.

I will sit in my pit and root

for my friends. I will shut

my mouth to the water that will

drown me. I will burrow in the

earth and wither and wait

for winter to take me while I sleep.