Coming Undone and Becoming

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.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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