I am from a Good Samaritan,
a cesarian birth.
I am from a green thumb, born

into garden gloves;
my mother’s leather hands.  
I am from Hyacinths and Begonias,

from Chrysanthemums,
and Black-eyed Susan’s.
I am from the river,

struggling against the white waters,
her hands supporting my underside.
I am from those summer evenings

spent snatching fireflies from the stars;
our cheeks glowing in their radiance.
I am from the dirt beneath fingernails,

the airless August sun,
and a long day on the trowel.
I am from pulled weeds, and those

precious things blossomed
and grown too soon.