Born on the first day of spring,

with fate’s string pulled from the womb.

I was early, couldn’t wait.

You were late, your mother’s doom.

When we met, you were lonely,

your father’s only real joy,

but I thought you so severe,

so your cheer was my sole ploy.

I was just one of many,

brothers took anything fun

I had, but they couldn’t steal

you. I still feel like I won.

Your father cried each solstice.

You couldn’t miss a stranger.

I hated every big bash,

we would dash into danger

(or so it seemed at the time),

run to climb those rocks hidden

behind the house where I slept,

and we kept far from our kin.

I picked you brand new daisies.

In those days we were witches.

And you brought me buttercups

to make up hexes for riches.

Every winter we waited,

our breath baited, for flowers

to grow so we could cast spells.

Used our yells to call power.

I know that our spells were fake.

I asked them to make you stay.

One day your father took you

and you were too far away

for me to walk, to drive, to fly.

You and I, we would send texts,

and yet I needed you near.

Without you here, what was next?

Childhood was dull without you.

I rushed too quickly to grow.

With whom could I celebrate

spring, the season misplaced its glow.

Ten years later when the last

winter’s night passed, far away

from where we met I saw you

where you drew the new spring day.

I think that I had been lost.

I saw you across the room,

you’re more beautiful, I’m sure

than you were after first bloom.