Growth

A single stem breaks through the dirt, no map, no plan, no spoken word, just light above and roots below, a quiet push, a need to grow. It does not question why it came, nor ponder purpose, seek out fame. It doesn’t stall or beg the sky, it simply lifts its face to try. Petals open, soft and slow, in colors it may never know. No mirror tells it, 'This is you' it only drinks the morning dew. Meanwhile, someone sits indoors, surrounded by unopened doors. Each choice a weight, each path a maze, lost in a mind of clouded days. They ask, what should I be? what's right? while lying wide awake at night. So many roads that twist and blur, uncertain who they truly were. Yet maybe growth is not a race, no final form, no perfect place. Perhaps we’re like the flowers too, becoming just by pushing through. Not every bloom must know its name to rise from earth and face the same sunlight that warms both root and soul, the struggle, too, is how we grow.