Eighteen in Bloom

By the wind, by the leaf, I lived. And I live still.

I was the whisper of a morning breeze,

Soft on your skin, tender as hope.

Eighteen years I danced in the bloom,

In dewlight, in grass, in golden slope.

Now fifty-eight I hold in gloom,

A room of walls, of stone and chrome.

But in my bones, the rivers rush—

The roots remember where they roam.

I was once a dandelion's breath,

Scattered dreams upon the air.

Children blew me into time,

I lived in joy, without despair.

But men now crush me ‘neath their shoes,

Forget the wish, the dream, the prayer.

I was the hawk in open skies,

Arms wide in freedom's raw delight.

I kissed the clouds with open eyes,

And danced through thunder, wind, and light.

But now, I perch on iron lines—

Where once was sky, is neon night.

I was a pebble in a stream,

Content in stillness, in its glide.

I did not want to change the world,

I just let the world flow inside.

The moss grew soft upon my soul,

And yet you passed me, preoccupied.

I was the sun on wheatfield gold,

Turning bread from earth and grace.

I warmed your children’s sleeping backs,

You looked at me, but not my face.

Now you chase false suns on glass—

And burn your eyes in your own race.

I was the song inside the bird,

The lullaby of dawn’s first light.

My feathers sang of joy, not fame,

But you silenced me with soundbites.

Your cities drown my ancient hymns—

Still, I sing on in silent nights.

I was the scent of jasmine dusk,

When lovers held and time stood still.

The moon would kiss the olive trees,

And every sigh was soft and real.

But now your nights are soulless noise,

Your hearts too fast to feel the thrill.

I was the rain on thirsty fields,

The weeping sky that came to give.

My tears were gifts from mountain peaks—

A sacred way the earth could live.

But now your drains reject my love,

You curse the floods, yet take and take.

I was the wolf on forest floor,

Eyes ablaze with sacred flame.

I guarded balance, knew the law—

Of nature’s pact, of life’s true name.

But you feared what you did not know,

And hunted me to stake your claim.

I was the oak, the whispering sage,

A thousand years within my rings.

I held the stories of the land,

The songs of storms, of buried kings.

But saws are faster than your thoughts—

Now all I have are ghostly springs.

I was a child of hill and stream,

My cradle built on fertile stone.

Eighteen years I lived in bloom,

In pastures rich, and all alone.

No wealth to count, no gold to mine—

Yet richer than your royal throne.

I was the scent of bread and rain,

The gentle thunder in the chest.

A fire, soft and calm, not wild,

But now you burn, and call it zest.

You call it strength to shout and curse—

And call it weak to simply rest.

I was the spider on the leaf,

Spinning beauty none could see.

My silence bore the loudest truth—

That art was more than luxury.

But now you crush what you can't price—

Your eyes too blind for poetry.

I was the curve of mountain paths,

Where silence spoke, and snow replied.

The peak was not a prize to claim,

But just a breath, a place to bide.

But now you scale me, scar my skin—

And raise your flags on hollow pride.

I was the whale in deepest blue,

Who sang for love beneath the tide.

The ocean was my sacred hall,

My song for God, not just my bride.

But nets now choke my ocean's throat,

While oil blackens every stride.

I was the lily in the pond,

Pure as dawn and calm as glass.

I taught that beauty needs no fame—

That stillness, too, shall come to pass.

But now your mirrors scream for more,

And shame the heart behind the mask.

I was the boy who touched the bark,

Of trees too old to tell their age.

I traced their scars and kissed their wounds,

And learned from nature, page by page.

But man has burned that living book—

To write his name upon a cage.

Yet in my sorrow sings a spark,

For though I've left the bloom behind,

I’ve sixty years to learn once more—

To love, to lose, to seek, to find.

This room may cage my present tense,

But not the garden in my mind.

So I will walk with softer steps,

And speak with kindness in my tone.

I’ll touch the leaves like sacred texts,

And never let my roots disown.

The man I am must rise again—

A soul reborn from flesh and bone.

For man was meant to love and give,

To share the sky, the sun, the sea.

Not to possess, not to destroy,

But to become the bended tree.

To offer shade, and bloom again—

And teach his child what it means to be.

I see now why my strength was cracked,

Not by the world, but by my view.

I called myself above the rest,

Forgot the world was me and you.

My soul had wings but never flew—

Because it feared the morning dew.

But Nature never asks for praise,

She only asks to be believed.

She gives and gives with silent grace—

And we are what we have received.

To scorn her is to scorn ourselves,

And kill the light we once conceived.

So I return—an ant, a pine,

A bee in bloom, a wave, a breeze.

I wear the world like sacred skin,

I kneel before the humble trees.

Each blade of grass becomes my prayer—

Each stone, a psalm that brings me peace.

Oh man, who runs with empty hands,

Remember this before you go:

The joy you seek is not in gold,

But in the rustling leaves below.

The richest men are those who kneel,

To smell the lilac as it grows.

So let me live in truth and love,

Let kindness bloom where anger grew.

Let mercy fall like April rain,

Let justice be the morning dew.

Let me become the man I lost—

And give to all, as Nature knew.

For I am not a single name,

I am the many, I am the one.

The bird, the tree, the breeze, the flame—

The rising moon, the setting sun.

I am the bloom, I am the room—

Where all of life has just begun.