jennlynn_green

I am,
and I am becoming.

Each day, a stronger stirring,
so much that I almost turned to ask you,
“did you feel that”?

This is not the movement of a single seed,
reaching for the light
to yield a bloom.

This is a field of wildflowers,
spreading past an iris’ dream;
vast, velvet-rich, attar of only-me.

Can it be that the myth of the unseen
hides a self-imposed lie about hiding?

Beauty does not cease
without eyes to gaze upon it.
Opening, it sighs
and knows itself.