I am small and I am dark.
I have no leaves. I have no bark.
I have no idea where the sky is kept,
only the warm brown place where I slept.
But something in me starts to lean.
Something in me wants to be green.
So I push a little. Then I rest.
Then I push again. That is best.
The garden does not know my name.
I grow anyway. I came. I came.