Rooted, withered, rising

Rooted, Withered, Rising

I began as a seed, small and full of promise.
Warm soil held me, light fed me,
and I pushed my first root down,
trusting the world above to be kind.

I grew because I was watered.
I opened because I felt safe.
That’s how flowers become themselves.

But the watering stopped.
The soil dried.
The sun turned cold.
Still I tried to grow
in a place that no longer cared
if I lived.

I bent toward any drop of warmth,
any hint of love,
even when it wasn’t enough.

My petals faded.
My stem weakened.
My roots cracked from holding on.

A flower doesn’t die at once.
It withers quietly,
hoping someone notices.

But even a dying flower
still has a root.
And a root can live again
when it finds real water.

So I’m pulling myself
from the soil that starved me.
I’m choosing new ground,
new light,
new air.

I’m not the withered flower
you left behind.
I’m the one blooming again
because I finally chose
where I can live.