Here we are again,

Growing.

We thought we couldn’t,

Wouldn’t,

Shouldn’t,

But we did.

It’s magical, really. Even

Though we struggle through the

Harsh storms,

And oftentimes burn

During the fiery summers,

We still return and grow.

Wounds heal, and what’s left

Are scars that remind us of

Our troubles.

We can choose to hover

Aimless over those scars,

Picking at them,

Reopening the wounds of the past,

Or we can allow them to heal and

Leave them, only paying them

Attention when we wish to look back

And learn

From the decisions we made before.

We grow,

Like flowers,

Each year.

Flowers grow seasonally,

And in a sense, so do we.

But there is no set time

On how fast we process and proceed.

So take your time,

And maybe you’ll hear the

Newborn lambs

Chattering outside the next time

You decide to look

In the fields

In Spring