A wildflower bends its head,
shrouded in the dusk and dust.
Its petals pull towards the sky,
not certain if it’s worthy of the sun.

The wind knows nothing of hesitation,
but the flower listens
waiting for the right gust,
the right moment to unfurl,
to lean into the touch it craves
but fears.

Underneath, the earth holds still,
roots wrapped in silence,
too heavy with the weight
of what could or should be,
to rise too soon.

A single petal falls,
unnoticed by those who pass.
It was never meant to be seen,
but somehow still longs for the eyes
that might.