To know the self as seedling again.
To push against the home I’ve known
before launching into ecstatic stretch.
To trust again how the slenderest threads
will anchor me to the world.
I had become so enamored with blooming,
I forgot the joy of initiation,
the thrill of not knowing,
the startlement of reaching through
darkness into light.
I’d forgotten the earnest striving
that comes before bud, before petal,
before effulgent perfume.
To be held by it again,
that sacred uncertainty.
To feel the flush of becoming
what I already am.