Even the rarest flower blooms
not for the eye of the passerby,
but for the quiet thrill
of her own becoming—
each petal a vow
to joy, to light,
to the rhythm of the earth.

She opens slowly,
not in haste but in hope,
stretching toward the sun
like a lover waiting
for hands that understand
the art of gentleness.

The bee, her familiar,
enters with reverence,
not to take—
but to join in the sacred exchange.
Their dance is old as time—
a brushing of breath,
a silent song of giving and becoming.

And if a lover finds her—
overcome by her wild grace—
he may reach with trembling hands,
pluck her in awe,
and lay her before another heart,
saying only:
“I saw something beautiful,
and thought of you.”