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The Hidden Stems

The Hidden Stems

As I hold its stem,

All I can feel is grit.

The kind of feeling that sandpaper gives When accidentally rubbed against the skin.

But still, there is substance, weight, gravity.

As I work upwards, the harsh touches subside, But then give way to the thorns.

More visceral than the stem,

Each prick more substantial than the prior.

But there is a gentleness, a softness present

Bearing down, each spine gives way, collapses and then softens.

And then to the top,

Soft, open, fresh; the petals of the flower are it’s reward.

But how do I see flowers?

Do I peer at what first catches my eye, Or do I grab for the base, the bottom, The place where no one thinks to look.

It’s in my hand that I discover it’s real beauty, No one part stands alone.

It’s in all parts the this flower is beautiful, The greater beauty that’s found only in the unseen.

And so I sit, ponder and cling to it while it clings to me.

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