i am always growing.
looking back, i see my past self as a seed of something larger, struggling to weasel its way out of the staunch, sturdy soil and bathe itself in the cleansing glow of the sun.
now i’m here, and i find myself still yearning to stem taller and stronger.
i have sprouted, yet don’t consider myself bloomed.
maybe when i watch the other plants surrounding me, all of differing measures and walks of life,
or hear distant branches from grounded, flourishing trees rustle contentedly,
or savor the newly-dropped pollen from languid bumblebees eager to assist me on my eternal journey,
or feel my meek leaves and buds itching to blossom into a burst of candy-colored, precious petals,
i am actually experiencing something much more meaningful --
something slowly creeping all the way up from my most robust roots.
maybe the earthy scents that encompass my being are telling me i belong somewhere else, smelling rain and snow poured from the endless cup above instead of sun-baked soil and dewy blades of grass from down below.
and maybe -- just maybe -- the roots that have always smothered me are actually a fertilizer, shaping and molding me into an individual forest who knows what it’s like to be an insatiated seed.
my senses can’t be clouded anymore.
from where i’m planted, there’s only clear skies ahead.