plant spiritual science poems

🌱 1. The Seed That Remembers

Before the sun was a name,
I curled into dark and listened.
Earth hummed beneath me like a womb,
and silence taught me shape.

I did not need to grow to know.
I carried ancient rain in my skin.
I was not waiting —
I was dreaming you into bloom.

🌿 2. Greenblood Whispers

There is no death in a leaf’s fall —
only retreat, renewal, ritual.
My veins are written in a language*
older than breath, younger than flame.

You think I do not speak?
Listen when you crush mint in your palm.
That is my gospel in oils.
That is chlorophyll scripture —
unspoken, but unforgettable.

🌾 3. Bloom Logic

I do not bloom for beauty.
I bloom to measure the sun,
to signal bees with sacred math,
to fold my soul into fragrance.

My petals are algorithms in velvet.
My pollen is prophecy.
You read books.
I bloom calculus in perfume.

🌳 4. Root Memory

Deep below your fear of silence,
I grow in spirals you’ll never see.
Roots reach not just for water—*
they reach for each other.

Beneath your cities, I’m whispering.
Tree to tree. Fungus to fern.
We remember fires that erased empires.
We remember when you, too, listened.

🌸 5. The Plant That Dreamed It Was a Girl

She used to speak in flowers.
Now she walks in bones.
A girl, they say, who grows herbs from her hair,
and dreams in nettles and yarrow.

But I remember her.
She was once a root in spring,
reaching for sky with hands of green,
loving the sun without fear.

🌕 6. Night Garden

Under moonlight, we glow differently.
Some call it stillness,
but it is prayer.
We breathe in stars.
We pulse in silver.

No gardener tends us here.
Only the moths believe
in our silent blooming,
and the old spirits who walk on dew.

🧪 7. The Banned Herb Speaks

I was outlawed for remembering too much.
For easing the pain the crown required.
For helping wombs bleed without shame.

But I’m still here.
I hide in fence lines, in forgotten books,
in your grandmother’s soup.

Call me by my true name,
and I will teach you
what they tried to burn.

🔮 8. When the Glyphs Bloom

The writing was not in ink.
It was in stem and spore.
A manuscript of memory, veined in leaf.
A code the soil knows how to read.

You hold the Voynich like a riddle.
I hold it like a mirror.
My chlorophyll deciphers glyphs
your machines can’t feel.

9. The Language Between Leaves

It was never silence, but syncopation—
A rhythm of rustle and sway.
The oak speaks not to the fern in words,
But in intervals of shadow and scent.

Wind is the courier,
but not the composer.
The real verses are written
in how one leaf leans toward another.

🌬️ 10. Breath of the Basil Oracle

She does not need a priest.
Only your breath and belief.
Whisper into basil at dawn,
And she may whisper back—
A warning in aroma, a blessing in bite.

Every crushed leaf is a question,
Every flavor a secret spell.
You do not eat her.
She allows you to remember.

🐚 11. Sea Herbs of the Forgotten Isle

Some herbs never grew in soil.
They rooted in salt-memory,
in the breath between tide and mist.

They held songs from when the moon was closer.
They heard whales speak in octaves
no man has ever tuned.

Even now, kelp prays for us.
Wrapped in its slick silence
is the antidote to our forgetting.

🔥 12. The Burned Grove’s Lament

You think you destroyed us.
But we are smoke now.
We cling to your clothes and lungs.*
We plant ourselves in your grief.*

You burned the roots,
but not the memory.
Even ash becomes ritual,
if carried by the right hands.

🧿 13. Glyphs in the Mycelial Web

You decode glyphs on parchment.
We encode glyphs in rot.
Fungi remember what trees forget.
Beneath your feet, a thousand signals flicker—
Warnings, births, invitations.

The real manuscript sprawls underground,
written in decay and golden-threaded nerve.
You can’t read it.
But you can dream it.

🩸 14. The Root That Bled Red

There is a root that dreams of warriors,
and tastes like iron when broken.
It sings in blood songs,
ancient chants for the wounded.

Give it to the wrong hands,
and it poisons.
But in the hands of the just,
it awakens lost courage in bone.

🌒 15. Moonwater and Marigold

At midnight, marigolds release what they withhold.
And the moon hears it.
You must not speak.
Only place your bowl beneath the petals.

Drink nothing, say nothing,
but dream of fireless suns.
For what the flower offers
is not a potion,
but a portal.

💫 16. The Herb That Dissolves Time

Brewed only once in a lifetime,
this leaf erases clocks.
Time unstitches,
and you walk again where you have not walked since womb.

The leaf knows which moment to open.
But you must enter barefoot,
and forgive every version of yourself
that didn’t yet bloom.

🧬 17. The Healer That Does Not Heal

Not all herbs mend flesh.
Some open the wound wider,
So the true pain can pour.

This one bleeds you into a mirror.
It is bitter as regret,
and sacred as honesty.

The healing comes days later,
in silence,
when you finally speak without shaking.

🌺 18. The Flower That Refuses to Name Itself

She blooms only when you aren’t looking.
No text records her shape.
Her petals change depending on who sees them.

She is myth and medicine.
She is the herb no god could name.

If you find her,
you do not pick her.
You bow.