19 years ago there were buttercups twisting
under my chin, that yellow stain proof of God.
Eyes full of squint,
young grass reached for my fists.
Spring grew inside my mother,
a hungry wolf sniffed her out.
A name is a plucked dandelion,
we pray to wake the sleeping wind.
I wish I knew how many suns
it takes to make an apology.
All that sky and you still can’t cry hard enough
to make it rain.