a poem dedicated to my mother

You are the bloom the sun bows to—
a pink dahlia in defiance of frost,
petals spun from blush and backbone,
standing where softer things
should have wilted.

You are not loud in your beauty—
no need to beg for light
when you make it.
Each layer of you opens gently,
revealing years of ache,
of laughter folded into bone,
of quiet victories
you never stopped to name.

I’ve watched the world
pull at your roots,
storms trying to steal
what they could never grow.
But you—
you held firm in the soil
like a secret prayer.

Even now,
your hands are gardens—
nurturing without needing praise,
tired, perhaps,
but still giving.

And I,
born from that same earth,
find myself soft in places
where you chose to be strong.

So when they ask what love looks like,
I will not point to roses.
I will say your name
and whisper:
pink dahlia