bud  Sitting on the old New England porch I inhale the sweet perfume of the geraniums beside me. The plant has grown a long stem and buds have appeared. They are sleeping as the sun climbs up and over the roof of the neighbor’s house. They look like seedpods and feel like soft velvet. Some are larger than the others are; some have the beginnings of peach-rose colored petals all tightly huddled together, similar to rose buds. I want to blossom as effortlessly, magically as this plant with its stalk, buds, and petals. I want to express my true nature, as simply, without fanfare or orchestra. I want to be without expectation that someone will sit beside me admiring the soft fuzz on my buds or the fan-shape magnificence of my leaves. I want to emanate joy just by being myself, my soft petals like tiny lips kissing the morning air. I lean over and kiss the buds, turn the plant around so the leaves, stems, blossoms can exercise their natural way by leaning to greet the sun. buds