The Reluctant Bloom

The Reluctant Bloom
By Dave

Spring whispered promises —
warm winds stirring the soil,
the sun’s fingers tracing gentle lines
on tender earth.

But I held tight —
clinging to the dark beneath,
where roots tangled like comfort,
where the soil was warm and safe,
where the frost could not find me.

I felt the heat of afternoon
but knew too well the cold of night.
I knew how warmth can vanish,
how morning dew can turn to ice
before it dares to fall.

So I stayed curled —
tight as a fist,
a bud wrapped in its own doubt.
The world above exploded in color —
petals unfurling like open hands,
offering themselves to the wind —
but I remained, sealed shut,
convinced the gust would tear me apart.

The bees came, dancing in air —
golden messengers humming songs
I could not hear.
They lingered at petals unfurled,
kissing each bloom with promise,
with purpose, with life.

But they never touched me.
How could they?
I never reached out, never opened wide —
never dared to believe
I was worthy of their touch.

Time pressed on.
The sun climbed higher,
then began its slow descent.
Flowers stretched wide to catch the light,
their faces golden,
their scent drifting like songs.

I waited too long.
When I finally dared to rise,
I felt brittle and thin,
my petals dry parchment.

And still the rain came —
weighing heavy on my leaves,
pooling in cupped petals
that had only begun to open.
The bees were gone —
carrying whispers of other flowers,
loves I never kissed.

I never bloomed —
just withered in silence.
No pollen kissed the breeze,
no seed carried my hope forward.

I fell alone,
cut loose from the root,
a failed bloom.

Yet even in my fading,
I fed the earth —
my brittle form becoming soil,
a quiet gift for flowers braver than I.