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.