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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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