Potential Unseen
In cubicles of muted beige,
they bloom unseen
wildflowers mistaken for weeds,
plucked before their particular brilliance can unfurl.
The boardroom hums with spreadsheets,
pivot tables, KPIs,
while down the corridor,
a woman carries galaxies in her coffee-stained notebook,
algorithms that could reshape everything,
if anyone asked.
But they don't ask.
They measure output in hours,
not in the way her mind maps constellations from chaos.
In the break room,
someone laughs
the sound of a river refusing to run underground and upstairs,
behind mahogany doors,
they wonder about retention rates,
never tasting the specific honey of what makes hands want to build here.
Seeds can wait decades in dormant soil,
or they can ignite overnight if someone strikes the match,
leans close enough to feel the warmth already there,
says: show me what you see.
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