Sourgrass (bermuda buttercup)

Winter (2008)
I am born with the season of old
already tugging at my heels.
my father pockets the first petal of my youth
so my mother strips off my fraying roots
with bare hands
she keeps me to bloom.

Spring
my mother cradles me with cracked fingers
& I pull on her hangnails to see
the skin of childhood underneath, raw but vibrant
I know she is still young,
I see that bit of her, left concealed.

Summer
the world wants youth the way tongues want something sweet
it chews at me early, those rotten molars
testing how long sweetness lingers before souring.
I feel the heat chewing at my blooming mouth,
my sunburns a warning,
nothing stays tender forever.
my skin begins peeling in yellow, thin, curling strips,
little whirls of ambition & aspiration
some of them stick to me,
most are swallowed by the thieving air.

Fall
by now the world knows my age.
It claws at my knees,
wilting my stature like I’m ripening too fast.
my friends & I talk of seasons passed,
swap stories to see what’s left
after so much has been pruned.
we sift through each other’s words,
pulling out the small, sticky pieces of youth
we’ve hoarded to salvage.
I keep some too,
only because it’s already smeared on my hands
by the time we’re done reminiscing.

Winter (2025)
I learn being young is a measurement of allowance.
youth is not a number
it’s something everyone feels entitled to tear from you- 
so when I ask, am I still young?
what I really mean is:
How much of myself have I been permitted to keep?

— Kendall Snipper