Once you called me fragile.
A flower, bent beneath the summer wind.
Once I thought I was.
Held to expectations now, and pinned
Dead as butterflies and without flight.
Alabaster, innocent, and pure.
Thoughtless to the fates,
Heedless to the breezes and unsure.
But what have I become?
Have I thorns to brandish like a rose?
Have I secrets now to give me sway?
Grown into a shark beneath your nose.
Once I was a willow.
Grown along a riverbank, and strong.
Raised unto a fortress--
Perhaps I've been a warrior all along.
postscript
NaPo day 29. One more to go. Oh how surprising the littlest people can be.