The Flower

There was a time I closed.

Not all at once
but quietly
the way a flower folds in on itself
when the night air turns cold
when the frost settles without warning.

Petal by petal
I drew inward.

Not because I was fragile
Because I knew how to survive.

The cold does not ask permission.
It arrives
and the body responds.

Closing was instinct.
Closing was protection.
Closing kept something alive
when warmth could no longer be trusted.

And for a while,
that became my shape.

Contained.
Still.
Untouched by what might harm me.

But in that stillness
I also forgot something.

The feeling of light.
The quiet pull of warmth.
The natural rhythm of opening
without fear.

Until one day,
there was a shift.

Not loud.
Not demanding.

Just the first hint of morning.

A softness in the air.
A warmth that did not rush me.
A presence that did not force me open
but waited.

And something in me recognised it.

Not fully
not without hesitation,
enough.

So I began
to open again.

Slowly.
Carefully.
Aware of how the cold once felt,
aware that it still exists.

I am not the same as I was before.

There is more knowing now.
More awareness in each movement.
More discernment in what I turn toward.

The frost did not affect my ability to open.

It changed the way I do.

I no longer open out of habit
or hope
or the need to feel something.

I open where there is warmth.
Where there is steadiness.
Where the light lingers long enough
to be trusted.

Still fragile
in the way all living things are.

But also resilient
in the way that only comes
from having closed
and choosing
to open again.

Because this is what I understand now

Resilience is not staying closed
to avoid the cold.

It is remembering
even after the frost
that you were always meant
to open toward the light

and choosing
with care
where you do.