Flowers find their own sun no matter where planted. 
The odd weed takes the best place for itself.

My grandchildren turned out to be themselves, our connection
more a gate that let me in to tend them and out to let them grow.

They are in their supple years, all possibility, ignorance
and grace­­—in wet spring, early summer of sun.

They flourish without me.
Pat me on the head in visits

but keep me in their night skies 
a once wished-upon star, a background constellation

needed for their story, a memory we share
of them leaning against me.