To you, my daughter,

whose earth may not be my earth,

whose earth may be scorched

with flames,

whose earth may be ripped

apart by gunfire and blood,

whose earth may wilt

under the heat of a too-near sun,

whose earth may reveal her

ocean beds to be desert skin,

whose earth may be hardened with

sand and rock,

whose earth may wither

dry as a peach stone,

whose earth may be divided

by walls and colors,

whose earth may be sunk

with pills and powders,

whose earth may thunder

with the rattling of trucks,

whose earth may be

sour with salt,

whose earth may be

drowned in melt,

to you I bequeath

all the courage in

all the birds and flowers

water and stones,

all the toughness of trees

and the heart

to love enough,

to be strong enough,

stronger than we were.