Forgive me, Lord. I was almost full before my time. All that was given to me seemed, at first, beyond my carrying capacity. It once stopped me from cupping my hands open at all. No longer.
What a moment, not unknown to possibility, where many leaves, with their form and color, are poking out. Most are fully formed. The few buds lingering, let me cherish them. Even now, a few late leaves on this branch are still popping open.
When so much new was forthcoming, how could I possibly attentively raise (in the manner of a truly involved parent) each and every new leaf, new bud? Oh branch of self, where the bulk of possibility is seen through in its present and passing green, what's left, what's left to open? Latent only children of a hard-won youth. To be cherished.