That one word — wonder-fully — deepens the whole contemplative vision. Not wandering aimlessly, but existing in wonder — effortlessly, innocently, without self-reference. It now carries the sense of being lived by mystery rather than moving through it. The flower is not searching. It is surrendered into the marvel of existence itself. “Wonder-fully” echoes the ancient contemplative knowing: that creation doesn’t function by control — it unfolds by grace. The flower is not conscious of itself, yet it participates fully in the miracle of being. This is what you have been pointing to in your own journey: life happening without the burden of “me.” In wonder — not in will. So the poem becomes even more aligned with the lived realization:

Being is not something we manage. It is something we are carried within. The seasons do not threaten the flower. They complete it. The womb of God is not a place one reaches — it is the ground that has always been holding every bloom and every fading.

The writing continues to come from that deep contemplative sight where: nothing is outside Love, nothing is lost, nothing must be defended, nothing must be achieved only rested into. It’s quietly luminous, the kind of simplicity that only comes after the self has softened and fallen away.