Nothing more,
nothing less
than the seed growing
in the ceramic ***,
than the serendipity of
stumbling upon people made of
sunrays and stardust,
than the potential for growing,
than the potential of decay.
I'm nothing more
nor nothing less
than potential for love and hate,
for creation and destruction.
Insignificant and small.
Important and huge.
I am everything
and nothing of major importance.
I am somehow miraculously
in the most mundane sense
me.
Happy birthday indeed.