White blossoms lean into the air,
soft as a whispered secret,
their petals catching the light
like folded wings about to rise.
One bloom opens wide,
a yellow heart glowing quietly,
while another curls its edges,
pretending shyness among the leaves.
The hibiscus, fragile but stubborn,
shows its bruised beauty,
a reminder that even torn silk
still dances when the wind blows.
In this small garden,
nothing argues with the sun,
nothing hurries the rain.
The flowers simply exist,
and somehow, that feels enough white.