-This poem reflects on the parts of spring still waiting to open, and the quiet truth that becoming does not happen all at once.
Not every branch has opened yet,
not every field has found its green,
some buds still hold their folded light,
some roots are working out of sight.
The orchard keeps a few trees bare,
the garden waits in certain rows,
and in the shade beside the fence,
small futures gather without show.
There is no lack in this delay,
no failure in the slower rise,
the season does not spend itself,
in one bright hour, or single bloom.
Some beauty ripens out of view,
some promise asks for later days,
and what is still becoming now,
belongs as much to spring as blossom.