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.