Bloom

The bud
      plucked too early
Never quite becoming
      in bloom
A season too late
      a dime too short
Struggling to keep her heavy head
      lifted up for a glimpse of the sun.

Mundane weekdays
      plague the soil
Toil
      man’s only friend
To reap the rewards he hath planted for himself
                  While she waits to bloom.

Maybe, during the waiting,
      she missed her time
Isn’t that the saddest thought of all?
Holding on tightly to the vine
      to survive
   Never learning how to let go

Maybe, this is her time
      Spring rain shall wash her clean
And her beauty will shine.

Chin lifted, shoulder’s raised
Head held high
Eyes sparkling with mischief
There will be no doubt
            she’s in bloom.
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