bloom

my mom plants a garden

in my heart.

she tends to the yellow tulips

and the purple hydrangeas.

me, a flower—

i can do very little for her.

i provide no physical sustenance.

i take from her—

i need her effort to sprout.

but her hand caresses me

and my stem perks up,

leaning towards her touch.

when winter comes

i begin to shrivel— i wilt.

my petals fall off.

she picks them up.

how can something dead

look so beautiful in her hands?

my mom plants a garden in me

because she wants me to live

to see tomorrow.

so when my mom 

wakes me up with her voice,

warm as sunshine,

nurturing as soil—

i know i have a second chance

to bloom.