The Beansprout

I think that I like you,
I might even love you a little,
just a little.

This is just the seed of a thing,
the first climbing shoot of a thing,
The first burrowing root of a thing,
The first two leaves unfurling.

I know that I like you,
but truth is I’m scared just a little,
more than a little.

Such a delicate seed of a thing,
a fragile sprout in the spring,
a spindly root trying for water,
too easy to yank from the earth.

What if we fail at this thing?
What if water runs dry from our spring?
What if leaves wither,
or roots run aground?

What about herbivores—
it’s the new shoots they adore—
or those rooting and rummaging boars,
seeking out the tender hearted?

This is just the seed of a thing,
the first climbing shoot of a thing,
the first burrowing root of a thing,
the first two leaves unfurling.

I think that I like you,
I might even love you a little,
just a little.