Literature
I
I was a white flower bud.
I was a peach, slick with dew,
I was a semi-truck
barreling down the orchard at 83 mph,
leaves rip-flying in my wake.
Before
I was a fleecy lamb
clean and new,
brushed and primped,
led to a union that was tinged with unclean hands
Filth-smeared,
generations deep.
Then I was a ship,
afloat on kind seas
basking in salt-freshness,
alone in the sun
but without counsel;
quiet and still.
I solidified into a structure
of golden granite;
strong, smooth, and bright
built upon bedrock and tested by weather,
able to shelter and provide sustenance
to blue flower buds,