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Inward Bloom

There is a moment before thought
when the body folds into itself,
quiet as soil before spring.
In that stillness,
the heart begins to stir,
a single pulse beneath the weight of silence.

The flowers are listening.
They open where the mind hesitates,
petal by petal,
a slow confession of what has long been hidden.
Grief softens.
Memory breathes.
Something unnamed begins to take root.

And as the first light slips across the skin,
you sense it, the faint beginning of change,
a motion toward warmth.
This is where the inward gaze
becomes a garden.