Sometimes we grow up like this:
gyroscopic, like sunflowers, our faces turning
towards the sun.  And the sun is more than a ball
of burning gas.  The sun is warm and bright
and alive.  And we are warm and bright and alive.

I am no bloom.  Wings do not rely
on the kindness of strangers.  But sometimes they will tell you
that people aren’t things you can own.
They will tend to the flowers, they will lean into the garden,
prune dead leaves and reshape
innocent bushes.  Their sweat will drip into
your faces, my glittering lilies, my lonely and cynical roses,
and they will tell you how to
come into your own.  They will say the world is a
cold and frightening place when you are
far from your home soil.  They will pack your roots with compost
and entice you to stay.

Rise from the dirt and move on.