Iteration Poem

I planted an idea one fine spring day,

A big, bold tree in a barren way.

Its branches stretched, its roots ran deep,

But folks passed by—afraid to leap.

“It’s far too strange,” they shook their heads,

And left my garden bare instead.

So I chopped it down and sowed a seed,

A smaller thing to match their need.

Each sprout that grew, each bloom I tried,

Taught me something I’d set aside.

“Oh, next time this,” or, “next time that,”

Each failure whispered where I was flat.

But more than lessons my stumbles brought,

They eased their fears of what I’d wrought.

Small steps helped them see and trust,

That change is not just bold—it’s just.

For failure taught me how to grow,

But it taught them to come, not go.

Each tiny shift, each small advance,

Gave culture room to take a chance.

So tend your garden—failures and all,

Both learning seeds and changes small.

For big ideas may rise someday,

But only if they find their way.