The million-dollar question
in our minds for rumination
whether the seed is first
or the tree is first,
like the query in complexity
at our hearts a perplexity
in knowing if the egg is first
or the bird is first,
a child is the father of man,
a seed is the mother of the tree
and a chick is the mother of a hen,
one minute and other majestic,
for, at its heart, it preserves
the tree with its stems
the stems with its leaves,
flowers and fruits
that are for sure in the bud
in store for the seed main
all soft beyond touch
all minute in its couch
macrocosm in microcosm
all molded in a microscopic way
in the art of creation
like the baby in the womb,
mother in miniature,
the secret of nature.
