My grandmother told me she used to dream about me.
Before my parents, before I was born,
She already believed in me enough to sow seeds.
And to this day, she calls us grandchildren her harvest.
Sometimes she reminds me that I come from the divine.
In her godly ways, she spent days creating and nurturing my roots,
Toiling away, until I burst through the soil, from the clay.
New to this earth, she showered me every day
With love, and water, and love, and sunshine, and faith.
Faith in God, faith in family, and faith in me.
Faith that I would flourish with nourishment,
That I would spread my leaves and learn to fly,
That I would never deny rainy days, but instead,
Embrace them because I need them as inspiration for respiration.
Here’s to believing in the sunlight that we’re breathing in.
So when this world leaves you feeling trampled and small,
Remember your power during the golden hour,
When the sun leans down to kiss the horizon,
You cast a colossal shadow,
Grander than your ancestors’ wildest dreams.
You are a fruitful harvest.
You are bountiful.
You are abundance.
You are more than enough.