April 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
I wanted it to be narcissus,
because I knew the story of
that flower’s name, understood
why such a delicate whiteness
would be drawn to itself,
peering into enchanted pools.
Hop, hop, from bunches of grass
and rock across the wetlands.
The frogs were trilling and chirruping
and oh, how loud together! Heels
sunk into water. Ripples ran to trees.
I wouldn’t pick the flower; it lived
here. So I skipped over the meadow,
over the hill, and back home to where
a book called it trillium. I closed the
book and frowned. And forgot often in
the next few years that my narcissus
was really trillium, and ought to be
called so. Until, one day, it just was
trillium, so rightly trillium,
a dancing, singing, happy sort
of flower, without a bowed face
drawing her to a lifetime of lonely
self-worship. Trillium, laughing,
turns her face out, three petals open
to beckon, to say, Dance! Sing!
To greet the world, and me.