BLOOM

Struggling so hard this week to meet editorial deadlines for my novel. The whole world beyond the word melts away and my stress rises and I am uncertain of everything. Exposed to the winter--still a tightly sealed bud, waiting, like the March magnolia in my garden.



One morning, it has already happened while I slept--the realization of the dreaming, fallow time. Faith has led to flowering...



I am the bloom. Or, I'd like to be--pushing through the unstable air, trusting in late-April's inherent goodness. My words cling to the ends of such willowy branches, part of me must trust them now and not gather each one into my aching arms and press them away between old dusty pages no one will ever see. I have to flare open--like these fearless petals instinctively do...accepting even the inevitable Fall.