Your first inkling, I suppose,
was a tingling and, a warmth, followed
by an irrepressible urge: Move. Reach.
I imagine your bursting through, the moment
you found yourself enveloped in light.
And still, the urge remaining, intensified
somehow: Move. Reach.
Then the long struggle: cold, heat, drought,
rain, wind and absolute stillness.
And through it all the light returning
with its irresistible song, drawing
your face to turn in its direction.
Mornings of dew and birdsong.
Nights of stars and the traveling moon.
Reach. Move. And now, the fullness,
your great work revealed, these brilliant
petals, this storehouse of seeds
standing as a record of your journey,
and as your crown.