Early March seemed almost mine
when I was twelve. All the world
revolved around my world
like the globe on its axis spinning
to my fingered motion.
Emerging from childhood, marking
the years by St. Pat’s day,
I half-believed myself
to be Irish, half-believed
the day was wholly mine.
When March came, I began to sense
in the winds an inclination
for decided metamorphosis,
larva to chrysalis, mitosis
to strongly patterned wings.
The day of my birth, the birth month,
has the stain of narcissus echoing
in its streams, on the hillsides
the cone-shaped blooms emerge,
petals from poisonous bulbs.