Her parents linger by the car, gathering
lunch and the blanket she will later
dance around and drop beside, pressing
her fingers into the grass and dirt.
For now, she sprints toward the field
of butterfly weed and flight, a toehold
on the waking she carries inside her, sheets
of dream and joy shed from her heels
in a flurry of petals trailing from the covers,
lifted from her breath scented with clover
like a world of green woven under a shadow
of wings, of passing sparrows and hovering gnats,
travelers of wonder she falls through, flowers
waved like wands in her passing, threading
the air with a magic of pollen and buds.
These will root in her, and in the later years
of loss and regret, blossom from her sleep,
sprouting thermals that will lift her above them.
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