Thursday, June 21, 2012


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.

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