Perhaps I’ve learned life from these Northern things, nothing comes quick & lovely. Life is a slow bloom sitting beneath the husk of the bud. All beauty lies encased in the darkness, long overdue—the pear blossoms shyly snug, the grass holding back its green.
I lay, encased, awaiting the sun, the warmth, the breath of life & time. But when I bloom, will any remain to see the soft brightness & subtle sweetness I’ve been slowly becoming, or will I be lone in my little field—a flower, swaying in the gloom?