The backside of halfway is scarey as hell.
Germinating and first growth have an energy all their own --
the life force rises, seeking light.
The budding flower stage is beauty unfolding,
the reward for all the hard work, delivering the fruits of labor.
But the next stage--the fading petals, shriveling--
I freeze at the thought.
Is there beauty in shrinking, going to seed?
Why cant we just hover perpetually at that full bloom stage?
Why do I have to know how my story ends?
This is written in response to today's Sunday Scribblings prompt. You can see what other participants had to say about "halfway" here.