Blossoming

In the hush of early morning, nature breathes.
A hush not of stillness, but becoming –
Naples Zen Garden grows with the dew-touched peace,
Each frangipani tree whispering soft hallelujahs
As their blooms uncurl, pale pink and sun-kissed,
Like Prayers answered slowly, but fully.

The soil speaks, and I have learned to listen.
Bright yellow zucchini blossoms beam upward
As if they know joy is their birthright.
Dainty white strawberry flowers nod with promise,
While the fruit remains green-
Patience dressed in velvet potential.

Purple lavender spikes reach upward
Like tiny incense sticks,
An offering to the God who met me
In the dark nights, and didn’t let go.
Even the tomatoes and peppers
Still wear the green of promise, not yet ripe but fully alive.

The crucifix tree is bearing fruit now – first time ever.
It took root in a year of global pandemic,
Grew into the shape of a cross
After the Vatican wrote to me,
Pope Francis, himself, praying
For my own father by name: Joseph Michael Finnegan

Thanking me for my book:
“What Does Your Garden Grow.”
That was then. This is Easter.
And now the cross gives life,
Now it bears fruit. A resurrection,
Not just of the tree, but of me.

The century plant has bloomed.
After all these years, decades maybe-
A silent witness to all I’ve endured.
Now rising with an 8 foot spike,
Like a giant asparagus spear,
Laughing in the wind.

It blossoms once in a lifetime,
Just like this moment of ours.

For years, it stood still,
Gathering strength unseen-
Just like I did
Carrying the memories and ache,
Tending to the broken
Awaiting my own spring.

And now I see:
The fruit on the crucifix tree,
The towering century plant,
The work at Urban Meditation blooming.
The roots I watered in faith
Are yielding blossoms.

The Princess of Freedom has awakened.
Her voice is rising like morning birdsong
On a new YouTube wind.
She sings of healing,
Of Truth without shame,
Of wellness and community.

One woman rebuilt
Her skin, her spirit, her scholarship funds
With Grace pressed from grief
And Joy born from Justice.
Everything blossoms in time,
and now it is mine.

Mine is not a flashy harvest
But a holy one.
The kind born in silence,
Nurtured through prayer,
Grown under the stars,
When no one was watching.

So I tend it still:
Each petal, each leaf, each story,
Because I know what blossoms
In the garden
Is never separate from what blossoms
In the soul.

And I will keep blossoming,
As long as I am free.