Spring forth, eternal flower,
from conscious pain—
the seemingly fruitless years of dirt.

Each drop upon your sprouting leaves;
a healing kiss from the skies above,
a quench of thirst.

A sprout you are,
and sprout you must.
After all, the sprout comes first.

But spring forth, eternal flower,
for you are not always to
remain tiny-leafed and teething.

The roots below
must feed the stem above.

So spring forth, eternal flower.
Let the sun kiss your petals.
Let your green buds burst.

Let life satiate
a long, growling hunger.

Leaves for a season.

But flower, you must.