Bloom

The little bud so hopeful as it quivers on the stem,

that feels the light so shining, but that fears it may grow dim;

does it doubt that it is equal to the bloom that it would be?

If it only knew its splendor, if it saw what I can see…

For you have grown already from a tiny little seed,

so lovely tall and graceful, and so much unlike a weed.

So far you’ve come so quickly, and so many trials passed;

but would you shrink from caution at the threshold of the last?

There is a pain in blooming, and it often hurts to grow,

but surely that is nothing that you don’t already know.

The bud will die to make the bloom, and so its prudence warns,

but the bursting life within it is so eager to be born!

And if you knot up in yourself, you’ll never be exposed,

but is that fine protection worth the glory of the rose?

A petal may be torn or may be taken by the wind,

but how much worse, you’ll find it, for the reed that will not bend!

There springs a hope in summer air that buzzes with the bees,

that dances in the evenings and throughout the morning breeze;

and do you sense it blooming there within your deepest soul,

the silent budding hopefulness of someday being whole?

Oh, how I love a flower dear, and how I wish it well,

and how I wish that it would hear the truth of what I tell!

There are no ghostly gardeners and no harsh hand of fate,

it’s simply being what you are, before it grows too late.

The little bud so doubtful as it quivers on the stem,

that feels the light so shining, but that fears it may grow dim;

oh but see it in its blooming, with its petals all unfurled,

feel its living love so hopeful as it opens up a world!