You will never see the basement of the church,
I spent months there begging for answers.
I will see the steeple.

You might never collect all the flowers in the garden
I spent weeks tending to the seeds.
I will reap the most vibrant yellows.

You will never hear the beating of the drum,
I spent months tuning it out.
I will strum my own strings.

You might never face the consequences of your past.
I may never heal.
But I will be better than what it left me.
I will rise up and I will feel again.

I wove a basket for you that I filled with my own flowers,
The summer drought killed my roses.
The summer rain drowned my daisies
But in the fall I die once more,
in the basket, I am reborn.
I wove you a basket you did not take,
so with my own heart I will make one,
in this basket I will keep
the flowers whose roots run deep.

I planted them myself,
for me.