Maybe
you are not the flower
but the plant,
pushing roots deep into fertile darkness,
stretching toward heaven,
sending out shoots.
And what you offer up—
whether it blooms or not
seems fraught with ifs.
If rain,
if sun,
if space.
If enough,
if not too much.
So many ifs with each bud
but you learn
to send them out anyway,
over and over.
You learn
that the blossoms themselves—
they are prayers
and shouts
and defiances
and offerings
and hope—
see how they tremble,
how they reach,
how the light shines through.
