Every year, the petals begin to unravel,
soft and pink as sun-touched cheeks,
during the week leading up to my birthday.
They reach their height the day of.
Once, I convinced myself they bloomed for me.
Imagined the turn of my year
to be a herald of approaching summer,
these unfolding petals my trumpets.
We are all born as gods and believers.
I was so convinced of my own divinity
I spoke life into my favorite trees,
knew life in wild prophecies.
Called the wind by spinning in tight, wild circles
with my fingers splayed like chimes.
There I stood—
gangly little patron saint,
spending all my miracles too early.
