What spurs the weary pea sprout on?
Some longed-for sun brightness? The distant sky?
Such battles it must fight, deny
both bird and squirrel its own self as crumb,
wend a winding way 'round pebble;
cheerful passing worm; silent, pensive grub.
And then (o difficult) must rub
up through some crack in the dirt, like rebel
against confining bars--
Only then, bruised and battered, may it greet the waiting stars.