The river carved the rocks with time,
Yet swore it left no trace behind.
The fire kissed the wood and air,
Then claimed it never once was there.

The storm may pass, the echoes thin,
Yet something lingers deep within.
Not seen, not named, but not erased—
Some marks were never meant to fade.

The sun still shines, the breeze still calls,
The rain still taps, the silence falls.
And when the moment feels just right,
The petals burst, a gift to sight.

The seed has slept, the world has spun,
The waiting game is nearly done.
The petals stretch, the colors gleam,
Awakening from winter’s dream.

It did not rush, it did not break,
It bloomed when time was sure to take.
A lesson whispered through the air—
Some things must wait to grow so fair.

The soil cradles the seed,
the seed cradles a secret.

It knows it can bloom.
Knows the sun will greet it,
the rain will nourish it,
the bees will come.

Yet still,
it waits.

Because blooming is not just survival—
it is choosing to step into the light.

You can know someone for years
and never really know them.
And then there are those
who understand you
before you even speak.

There are friends for now,
friends for a while,
and the rare ones—
the ones who never need an invitation
to understand.

There are no good or bad,
Only what is,
And what will be.
Each moment unfolds
A lesson, quietly.

No right, no wrong,
No black, no white,
Only the steady rhythm
Of shadows and light.

What is, must be,
And what will be, is done—
Not to punish, nor to praise,
But to teach, to become.

So let the lessons rise
Like waves on the sea.
There are no good or bad—
Only what is, and what will be.