There is spirit, still, in spent things,
In seed pods and bare branches.
As a babe in the womb, buds and seeds lay sleeping
Swaying to and fro,
Safe while they grow,
Soft and slow.
Soon, they come.
Unfurling, uncurling, pushing towards the light.
Gathering sunlight and suckling it down.
Soon they will be grown, the seed, the bud, the babe.
And someday, they too will be spent things.
But always within them, always
There is spirit.