Patience for spring

I look at them and I see it.

Not just who they are,

but the person they

are meant to be.

Their potential is a physical weight

in the room.

loud, vibrant,

and yet... remains untouched.

There is a specific grief in seeing

the harvest before the

seeds have even cracked.

I want to reach out and pull

the petals open with my own hands.

But I’ve learned that forced

blooms have no scent.

My timeline is not theirs.

To love them is to sit in the

quiet ache of their "not yet."

So, I hold my breath, my peace,

And learn the hardest kind of love

the patience, to let them

find their own spring.

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Sophia Das

July, 2026