waiting for birth

Poppy petals are strewn
across my childhood, white and pink,
tiny, wrinkled, torn
from pods to be examined,
and wilt and die.

Deep-planted seeds in my soul
root in dark, unhurried.
Hope is hard—trust,
when nothing appears to grow,
and beauty is slow.

But air and light and touch
would kill this half-formed life,
scattering pink petals
where there could have been
a poppy field.