I will grow.
I am this thing that is
still green.
So many tell me I am
done,
fruited,
blossom withered
dropped and gone
at best
but I still feel I am a seed
still feel the roil of potential,
the strange buzz of anticipation,
trembling in wait.
I am shrouded
in the wet dark,
buried
yes,
but not dead, no,
just dreaming,
dreaming,
dreaming of the sun
and the day I will rise,
green and curled
and coming undone
and becoming,
with a flourish.
You don’t have to wait for me,
if you don’t want to —
you don’t.
I will bear the blossom and fruit for myself
if I must,
but I do imagine
it will all be the sweeter to share,
even if the wait was longer
than anyone intended.