The Little Flower

She slows in the garden, the sunlight held wide, and something small catches and pulls at her eyes. Not bright like the roses, not placed to be seen— just there in the middle of somewhere between. A white little flower, uneven, askew, one petal bent over, another not through. The stem slightly crooked, the edges not clean, not anything close to what "perfect" would mean. She watches it longer than she meant to stay, the rest of the garden just fading away. No rush in its growing, no need to impress— it stands as it is, a nice kind of mess. The wind nudges past it, it dips, then it stays, not steady, not certain, just finding its ways. It doesn't look strong, it doesn't look sure, yet somehow it lasts, and somehow endures. Her gaze doesn't leave it; something feels clear, not loud, not sudden, just quietly near. Like maybe you don't have to perfect it all, to rise from the cracks and not fully fall. She breathes a bit slower, her thoughts settling through, the light on the petals a soft, uneven hue. And still it keeps going, not flawless, not grand— But it still keeps growing because… well, it can.