The small blue stars,
clustered on the quiet earth,
a silent bloom on hallowed ground.
They do not strive for notice,
yet each spring, they return,
a whisper of what was,
a gentle echo in the green.
I come, with my hurried steps,
my anxieties a tight knot,
my striving to leave a mark,
a ripple in the vastness.
But the forget-me-nots,
they unfold without ambition,
their delicate blue a constant,
a truth unmoved by my small storms.
The sun climbs, the rain falls,
the seasons turn their ancient wheel,
and these tiny flowers,
a part of that steady breath.
My doing, my wanting,
a fleeting dance in the grand design.
The only wisdom, it seems,
is to soften the gaze,
to still the restless heart,
and witness the blue.
To let their quiet beauty
remind me that the rhythm flows,
regardless of my small part,
and my only true task,
to open, to receive,
this subtle, persistent grace.
