I Grew It From Seed

The redbud tree has been cut down, and only its purple-pink "buds" remain, scattered on the ground, like my tears.

"I grew it from seed," i lament.
As if that were possible.

I collected the seeds from a redbud tree in the yard of the house i grew up in, in Indiana.
I scattered the seeds in a flowerbed.
I waited.

The seeds grew themselves.
"I" had nothing to do with it, except that i recognized the sprouts and didn't pull them out, thinking they were weeds.

Every spring i scatter thousands of seeds.
And now i lament the death of one of those seeds i planted.

Which seed was it?
I have no idea.

I had a 2-gallon container full of redbud seeds. I didn't pick out one seed, and say "You're going to become a tree." Hundreds of those seeds never sprouted, but about a dozen did.

Those seeds grew themselves.
I had very little to do with it.

Isn't it funny how language can warp our perception?

"I" grew it from seed.
Therefore it belongs to "me."
Thus i cry over losing something that is "mine."

I-me-mine is just an idea, just a concept.

The seeds grow themselves.