Today, a Saturday,
early June,
I bloom

in this summer
dress, in the
same pattern as

when I was half
my size and
a quarter of

my age. I have
put a plaster over
my grazed knee,

scraped and stained
green by the garden
that I grew up in.

I sit in the same
swing (only more
splintered), hung

on the same ropes
(only more frayed)
from the same

horizontal branch
of the same tree
that I had carved

my initials into.
I am the same
as the tree,

the same as me
before, only grown,
upwards, my leaves

searching for light,
my rose petals
following the sun.

And today, a Saturday,
early June,
I bloom.