As a kid 

I could follow the sun across 

horizons,        I could twist the green ease 

of my neck in tandem with the crowd, 

assuming that the leaves of all 

our arms could hold 

the same amount 

of sunlight. 

Now, still a kid 

but ancient, I can barely keep my head 

lifted till dusk,      eyelids gilded 

with possibility and feeling 

like a burden, creaking 

in a field of spines 

that mistake my wilting for misery 

who think losing petals is the only 

sign of sickness, that yellow 

means I’m healthy. 

I was made to choose 

one horizon, to have the sun move with-

out me, noticed only for my stillness, 

learning you do not 

have to chase the light 

for it to return.