Letter to my child self on the eve of her eighteenth birthday

There are flowers, here
so many flowers: sunflowers
and chrysanthemums
coneflowers
and peonies
hollyhock and hibiscus
brown-eyed susans
snapdragons and larkspur
summer snapdragons and lambs ear
zinnia, begonia, pansy
milkweed and irises
and kangaroos paw
so many you will forget their names
but listening to the frogs trill
you will lay in bed awake
and murmur a song of thanks
to be alive
even now
in this century
to taste the first bud of autumn
on your tongue
and celebrate the summer
its dying;
yes, there are flowers, here
so many flowers
and the skies

they burn lavender and pearl
clustered around Jupiter
as it hangs beside the moon
bending her light
and you are here, alive –

yes, there are flowers

so many blooms
you will collect them dry
in your hands
while the birds peck at apples
lost in the grass;

it is impossible, being alive
but you are here
and there are flowers
marigolds
and poppies
hydrangeas
and lupins
lilies of the valley, lilacs
and tulips – yes,
there are flowers
and it is lovely
and all around you the earth sings
in celebration
and you are here, too
singing