FireFlie

By Hope VandenAkker


She is part of my open arms,
The circle of non-genetic faces
With different roots from a different tree.
We are not bound by DNA,
But rather by our spiritual composition
Consisting of the twisted strands of soul.

The soil we are planted in does not
Define the term “family,”
But rather how close our branches blossom
Through the nourishing of
Sun, stars, and rain.

Her name cups the blue of her eyes,
And the gold of her hair.
A lucid dream is not even as free
As her thoughts,Floating in breathing oxygen,
Waiting for you to inhale.

She is a holder of my memories;
Present in a scattered red graveyard
To give respect to those who fall underneath
Our feet’s’ current.

She captures exploding campfires in her jar,
And shelves them next to
The dangerous floorboards of an abanded house,
And the muddy adventures of a neighborhood trail.

Happiness is taped on her walls,
Held together with recycled stickies
And a snow day.

And if one day,
You find yourself ever looking up,
You just might be able
To see her face in the sky.