To have grown without the grain of hate.
To sleep and want to wake before the school day starts.
To finally believe in happy endings, and beginnings,
and later, to know that it wasn't my fault.
To not be the crop she raised from kernel
to a raging field of fire, taking
half a span and passing to extinguish.
To not walk wanting, or wounded through the stubble,
smoke lying low on the horizon,
watching spiral wisps of what could be
To be raised in a meadow full of buttercups and trust,
and a smile sweetly meant, malice furthest
from the heart as other galaxies to Earth.
To not look for love
in all the thorny places,
from other damaged crops,
To know enough to realise
that kindness rears the highest yield,
the taller trees, unbent.
What I didn't have myself
I made a present of,
unwrapped and unconditional.
Swaddled her in safe
to grow as tall as trees are meant to grow,
knowing that my heart is hers,
that I am always there in a meadow
full of buttercups and trust.