I am the one who is willing to grow. Fresh, bright, blooming. From mud, from shit, from seed, then sprout. From sunshine and rain, cooling wind. From garden bed. From a beginningless past, a universe of conditions. Bumping and exploding through space and time.
I tell stories. Like, I am the yellowest flower on the table. Or, I remember a day that smelled like fresh cut grass. And O, Lordy, when they came to cut me down, you can’t believe the tears. Sit and let me tell you about how my petals are numbered, won’t be long before I wilt, then wither, then decompose.
Endless stories tell endless stories tell endless stories.
I am the one being grown. Life streams around me and through me. Regardless of how I feel about it. If I rail against it or if I dance with it. Doesn’t matter. It unfolds and unfolds and unfolds.
I am the one who is willing to change, to relax, to listen as much as I talk.
I am willing to be, lived.