Seeds

I am nothing but the names of the trees, imprinted in my soft topography, recollections of sappy hands in yours easing out splinters from our shared outdoors. I am nothing but rustling in the kudzu, smiling far away at us, the ones who rub petals together, powdering lips with pollen, half-smiles, and our rose-red quips. I am nothing but the stories you saved, scattered at night for the light that I craved I only walk in day, with your eyes and smile and wildflowers paved in the path all the while. Within your seeping garden, more seeds grow than you, my mother, ever planned to sow.