To witness growth
one must take a step back
but not remove themselves
from speculation,
change, like belief and bubbles
alter in temperature and light.
As the gardener cannot see his progress
the bloom feels its way,
leaning on its stem,
aiming was its own reward.
Mothers are often blinded
by this slim proximity
notice the pulling chord
that is heard as heartstrings
plucked.
She knows all things grow over night,
the young years thunder on tired legs,
over time, the smell of blooms and bodies
become intoxicating,
telling.
It felt like Summer,
it was Spring by morning.
the light rushed in
ahead of the sweeping breeze,
but we knew it was coming,
we smelled the way
things change.
Painting by Frédéric Bazille [Public domain], c. 1866-67 via Wikimedia Commons.
