You cannot rip open the bud of a flower
To get at the beauty you seek,
No matter how good your intentions are.
No matter how far along the path.
It must happen alone,
At its own time, to its own schedule
Full of starts and ends,
And with maybe decades of no motion at all.
Like the fingers of my clenched hand,
Only when the moment is needed for the salvation of everything,
When beauty is demanded, when I finally awaken,
Is when I uncurl my fist.
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