things i'll say to my seventeen-year-old-daughter:

the trees of my childhood are not the trees of your childhood
there are honeysuckles growing from your veins
and daisies blooming in the palms of your hands
you are more than the people you've touched,
the bodies you've held, and the beings that lived inside you;
for there are so many beautiful variables to existence
and you are one of them

when things fall apart and the glass shatters
i'll take you back to west virginia, to that eggplant farm, that moss-covered log
and i'll show you what august grass feels like
and when the wind blows all the candles out,
when the stars turn to plumes of smoke,
i'll hold you hands, your skin,
the stones you swallowed in your sleep.

let me tell you about the ottoman empire,
about the dynasties that have fallen and risen,
how you only appreciate cities after they've been earth-struck windswept
how the only constant in life is change,
how sometimes it takes you so long to forget
but one day you won't remember
that your heart was once a burning shipwreck under four thousand layers of sea
that there were days when the sun forgot to shine for you
and one day you won't remember
the little fragments of your childhood, the chicken coops, the daffodils
one day you won't remember where you came from
one day you won't remember me
but that's alright —
pick yourself up and leave,
you are seventeen, you are free
but if you ever want to find me, i'll be here
in the oakwood creaks,
in the wind chimes, in the small moths that flutter towards your light.