**Part of the I wrote this for you series.**
spring is at hand.
and the harvest is imminent.
you’ve been waiting,
tossing, and turning.
restless night after night
as the reality
of your thoughts seep in
past the numbness of a
day’s doing and distraction.
the truth of your desires,
yearning,
your child-self asking
when is it time to play,
when is time to roll around wild,
laughing without reason,
objection or observation,
absent of
expectation and envy.
“just you and me,”
she asks.
could we create?
free.
could we, could I?
over and over,
you ask yourself.
buried under fear and insecurity,
the weight of eyes watching,
everyone judging,
could you?
for even seeds are buried,
shielded from the spotlight,
because the work of rooting
can be messy and full of mistakes.
yet how much more glorious
when the seed sprouts and climbs
through the soil to find light,
sunlight it craves, desires,
deserves.
what a triumph,
an act of magic.
to find that the very soil that buried you
is what gave you the shelter and strength
as you found ground.
to find that it was what you needed.
to fight and find freedom in the tension.
to be buried is to stay underground
or to break through,
to blossom, to bloom.
Written for you and your story.
Thank you for sharing and for the honor of being able to hear you.
Can I write something for you?
Share your story here.
