On Graduating High School by Hannah Grove (18, Colorado)*

Dear Diane, 
Isn’t it funny 
how things never go according to plan
like how not all dandelion seeds will take root,
but wasn’t it beautiful  
the way they rode the wind’s hand 
and landed so far away? ​

---

This August, 
my home was an alpine hillside, 
where I often sat 
in the cool evening grass 
to watch the stars go by. 
And I thought about dandelion seeds
that never cultivated weeds  
and how I could be sitting 
on the graves of stars 
buried within the earth. 

This might’ve been what you thought last spring,
Diane, 
when I handed you fistfuls of my hair
tied neatly in pink ribbons, 
or when I smiled as you traced trembling fingers
along the burn areas where roots once grew.
Did you know then 
that my deforestation 
was a gift from God? Or that fireweed
and lodgepole saplings only break the surface
once the char has settled  
on the nape of my neck? 

I’ve been practicing 
standing at the threshold 
with a belly full of stories  
and a pocket full of dandelion seeds.
It’s all a matter of transitions, you see.
And it’s beautiful 
the way I’m riding the wind’s hand  
and landing so far away. 
But what if I don’t take root? 
And even if I do, 
what if the bouquets of  
life lessons and love poems  
wilt when I place them on your  
windowsill? 

I know just what you’ll say:
“Slow down, my love, 
the stitches get messy  
when you force the fabric through.”
Diane, thank you for the placard words.
I hope you don’t mind 
that I’ve eloped with them in the night.
Because it’s only by being here 
that I’ve realized how  
my ribs form a marimba  
that sings when I laugh. 
“I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention.” 
So I’m devouring the gospel of 
birdsongs 
footfalls 
flash floods. 
I can’t help but startle 
at the stutter of my own feet 
and the power of this dance 
that comes from me  
alone. 

I guess that all I’m trying to tell you,
Diane, 
is that I catch myself smiling 
when the moon climbs through my window
and nudges me awake. 
If you see my curtains open, 
please don’t call me foolish 
or try to coax me home. 
Just whisper me a soft wind 
and keep me in your sights.

​