What is it to reach, yet never roam?
A single seed, a fragile dome,
breaks earth’s dark silence, lifts its face—
a quiet prayer for light and space.

It follows something it cannot hold,
a shifting warmth, a distant gold.
Each turn, a choice without regret,
a faith in suns that rise and set.

When petals fade and heads grow frail,
it scatters truth in husks and shale—
that endings are not walls but doors,
and death is seed for something more.

We too are bound to earth and sky,
rooted, reaching, till we die.
Perhaps the sunflower knows the way:
to bloom, to follow, to not delay.