The Church Hidden Inside a Seed
No one hears the seed confess itself
before the rain unlocks its silence.
It carries no bell, no stained-glass light,
only a darkness patient with roots.
Buried things are often mistaken
for forgotten things.
The earth knows the difference.
It keeps every small promise alive.
A sparrow lands where nothing is growing,
certain there is more beneath the soil
than the eye has learned to see.
The seed does not argue with winter.
It kneels beneath it,
learning the slow grammar of patience.
One morning the ground opens
like a mouth remembering a hymn,
and a green prayer rises
without asking permission.
Perhaps every heart is planted first
before it is taught to bloom.
Perhaps faith is not a ladder to heaven
but is God descending with love.
If there is a church hidden in the world,
it begins wherever something small
chooses life again.
The trees know this.
The birds have always known.
Now the wind is trying to teach us.
Khayelihle Benghu is a poet whose work has appeared in Person of Interest, Suburban Witchcraft, and AKE Review. Her writing often engages with transformation, myth, and the quiet strangeness of the everyday, exploring how inherited stories continue to shape contemporary lives.
