A simple seed

I am a plant in a pot of fired clay, round as a promise, small as a warning. My roots reach outward with ancient confidence, expecting dark infinities of soil, only to press against a smooth wall. I circle myself. I knot. I learn the shape of my cage by heart. The pot is not cruel. it was made by careful hands, designed to protect, to decorate, to keep me “safe.” Yet safety has a way of shrinking horizons. Growth becomes negotiation. Expansion becomes repetition. Above the soil, I look alive enough. Green leaves applaud the sun. No one sees the roots rehearsing escape, no one hears them whisper, There should be more than this. And I think of humans. How we fire our own pots from fear and habit, from old words spoken once and believed forever. “I am not that kind of person.” “It’s too late.” “This is as far as I go.” We call them thoughts, but they behave like walls. We grow downward into limits we made ourselves, confusing familiarity with destiny. We bloom just enough to survive, never enough to astonish ourselves. Sometimes the pot cracks. A root finds a seam. And that is when growth becomes dangerous wild, larger than what was planned. Not because the plant has changed, but because it is free.