Rice flower

I’ve never bloomed for attention.
Like the rice flower, I grow where it’s dry — where the soil is rough, where quiet things survive. I don’t fade when the season changes; I just become still. There’s a kind of peace in that — in holding shape, even when everything around you bends. People think strength looks like fire. But mine is quieter. It’s in how I stay, how I don’t lose myself, how I keep a softness the world couldn’t take. I don’t need to be loud to last.