In defense of the Late Bloomer

a poem.

In defense of the Late Bloomer
t.r.h. blue

Time is not a line,
a tether.
It is not a bridge
we must walk from here
to there.

Step into the crisp fall air,
the cooling sun the mums and
autumn roses drink like ale.
Accept the ripe, lush life offered you
by the generous arms of the apple tree.
The beetroot and the carrots are ready.
Eat them straight from the dirt.
They grew in the dark, in the
quiet, rumbling belly of the earth.
Who would have guessed they’d be
plucked from the ground to bare such 
a spectrum of sparkling color?

Even the tall, proud bodies of
sunflowers take the time they need to open.
Everything blooms in the season
it is made for.