Occultivar

No one saw the seed that fell
Into the pine-needle duff.
It was small, more like a spore,
Stray dust, a mote, nothing much.

It didn’t belong
On the forest floor.
It was not indigenous.

It took root. It grew,
Sent out tendrils, shoots, explored.
It said nothing, but it knew.

It climbed the pillars, became
The roof of a lightless world.
New lives brewed inside that frame
Of the tree God dare not name.