Infant buds, wrapped tight, enclosing petals delicate and firm,
ready to stretch, flex, quiver in the expectation of becoming,
as blossoming consciousness, at that point of vulnerable bursting;
when knowing does demand release, attention then must turn.
Pressure builds within the waiting sanctuary of sleeping mind,
teases at the tender edges of potential, possible understandings,
and dreams along with every other incarnated being;
of flowering, shimmering, waves which truth can surely find.
The gardeners wait patiently, secateurs sharpened and polished,
tending always to the integrity of the shape of maturing spirits,
tidying, trimming, readying for that moment of accomplishment;
when buds burst into blossoms and ignorance is admonished.
So does the Soul guide material intelligence to deep knowing,
and drink the draughts imagination brews in perfumed joy,
to nourish all that is, throughout eternal, constant being;
as each rose shivers softly in the breeze that life is blowing.