The flower knows it’s truth; To bloom,
with neither worry, nor care, for the size,
or the shape, or the colour of it’s petals.
The flower knows it’s truth; To thrust open
it’s lips and drink in the wind and the water.
To love the sun, fiercely, all day, and to lie
with the moon, cradled sweetly through the night.
The flower knows it’s truth; To receive and
to live. Fully. Completely. Simply. To bloom,
and to wither, gently, into that which gave it life.
How sweet, how simple, how profound. To bloom into
your knowing and blossom in it’s care.
To be that flower!
Alas, I must seek my truth. What is my truth?
What is yours?