A seed sleeps,
curled like a secret
beneath the patient soil.
Rain kneels down,
pressing soft hands into earth,
whispering, wake, grow, become.
The stem rises,
a fragile green prayer
breaking through stone.
Storms come,
bending it near to breaking,
yet the wind teaches strength
better than stillness ever could.
Petals unfold—
not all at once,
but in slow, trembling breaths,
as though the flower must learn
to trust its own color.
And when autumn arrives,
it does not mourn.
It scatters its gold freely,
a final act of generosity
before returning to silence.
So it is with us—
we weather, we bloom,
we let go.
Transformation is not a moment,
but the endless turning
of being into becoming.
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