Everything I do here is about growth,
whether of green shoot or myself.
I came in winter, in snow, through ice,
landed on both feet, trying to find a path
from door to street, door to garage,
no matter, just a way to walk.
No one knows better than me
what it takes to grasp uncertainty,
to make something out of
nothing, to live. Friends back east
say I'm brave, but I'm not. I know
there is an end to choice; it is
upon me. Any direction I turn toward
must be consistent with my trajectory
since I came here. I cannot experiment
anymore, as I did in my garden.
There, I ran out of ideas, tired, stopped.
Here, I must go on, face into the wind,
not minding that sometimes its cold
cuts through my thin garments.
My drawing teacher says that it is brave
to face fear and conquer it; for me,
facing fear is simply to wake up in the dark,
take a shower, get dressed, go to school.
All my other demons stop talking
when I do this much.
Just this much and no more.