This is how to bloom
— for Dee, of daffodil season
And you,
From damp earth
and newborn grass
Born among daffodils.
The sky strains to grow.
You are ruffled edge,
a burn of gold.
And you, in resurrection
In this tender-sun season
Made from burden and stone
In an urgent quiet, whisper
What are you waiting for?
— Drew Myron