I watch-
Not with hands to guide,
Not with words to press,
But with eyes wide, open, waiting.

First, a bud- small, flickering, unsure.
Second, a stem - frail, shivering, unreal.
Third, the roots take hold.

Its questions sharpen,
Its voice steadies
Its prescence grows.

I watch- grinning
not because I led,
Not because I pushed
But because I knew they would bloom.


Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Miraman, in the year 968 AF.