Befog

Befog

At six I saw my hero, by seven, my wilted past.

But the sweatshirt you left behind was the hope I learned to count on.

A sign of my future growth.

I wanted to be as big as you, until I learned how small that was.

I was like a seed from a bush,

that dropped not too far from home.

But I crossbred with ambition. I am a tree

and you were uprooted.

The sweatshirt you left behind, once comforting,

now holds my wrists and waist like a straight jacket.

The hood I mistook for your cape,

now nothing but a mask and I don’t know you.

At eleven you were my guidance, by sixteen, you stunted my growth.

You were the child, but I matured. Now,

at twenty-one I surrender, as the bushes sprout branches out of season,

as the sun’s heat befogs the snow, and rolling fists of crisscrossed blades of green

beg for color.