early spring, you get it, and still you think
hey, better wait just a little while longer -
no need to show the world what may be my best pink
ever. No, I could use more warmth, a little sun for getting stronger
and then i'll open all my doors, so far and free and wide -
let in the breeze, the deep rich smell of freshened earth,
announce that full self i've been keeping tucked inside,
since anything of embryo needs time before its birth.
such planning, then, the marking of a calendar
to pinpoint the exactness of your timing,
careful steps, alarm clocks calculating the remainder
of the month before you reach your fullest ripening.
the thing is, no one's counting down the days
before you're ripe enough for that spotlight in the room
among the other unfurling, glorious brightnesses.
No one waits for you to bloom -
You just do it, unseen, masked behind the rain
the cold, the flattening wind whose strength you grieve.
You don't wait for a break in the clouds, applause, some plain
morning of forgiving light that offers pure reprieve.
Instead, you fly into the mist, announce your name
into a silent ring of trees, unwrap each precious hour
like the tiny miracle it is. It will never be the same
as this, ever. It is only yours to know, this flower.