My mother is a garden. Spring is her middle name. Her eyes are the green of budding leaves. My mother cultivates. She takes things in, allows them to settle and gestate.
Her thumbs are perpetually thorn-bitten, and she blooms and hibernates like the change of seasons. My mother can be secret or inviting, and I notice her ways that have taken root.
I come from flower people, I say. And you can see it inked into my skin.
Happy Spring baby born in the month of May. She pulls petals out of her pockets and smells musky and sweet, like soil. My mom is like a garden, and she has taught me to see colors.



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