The buds swell
till the shuck
breaks
but we
are not there
yet.
Inside, petals,
crushed and clenched
tiny fists pushing
against what
for so long
has protected them.
It is better
not yet
to bloom.
Better to remain
closed until
the days do
what days do,
lengthen and push back
the edges of cold.
It is cold.
It is cold.
White comes.
I grow old.
The opening comes
when it comes,
and when it whitely comes
there are no guarantees
that it will not freeze again.
But for now,
what is soft
leaps against
what is hard
and there is
infinite potential
for
sweetness.
absolutely stunning, my beautiful friend.
Oh dear Erika, thank you for walking (and falling) alongside me, half a step (at least) ahead, so gracious, so gracious
Doing what buds do
Pushing against what holds
Asking, “Are we there, yet?”
Doing what buds do …