How many pulses,
how much life force
does it take from seed to bloom?
And never does the flower ask:
Am I too big?
Are my colors too bright?
Is it ok to be true, beautiful?
It blossoms, ever-opening in its season,
perfect way, striking in sweet scent,
innocent and pure in delicate petal, detail
unfurling to wholeness again
and again and again.

Dream wisps linger
and dissolve in first light,
the fog of in-between
symbol and form
leaving remnants
like a night tide delivering
shells of the unconscious
closed, cracked, just barely
hingeing open,
each a discovery
or part of a sea story
washing me home.