SPRING EQUINOX

I have peeled back the petals of a daffodil
in search of the season's essence,
and walked the circumference of a Fairy Ring
where the beginning returns to itself
beneath a ray of cold sun.

I have become one with the springtime:
the hail, the strong winds and pounding rain;
the dancing hyacinths;
the fernworks of ice on windows
that seal me inside my tomb
of misted rooms

from which I'm forced to observe the changes -
pigeons billing and cooing on cabin roof,
the smell of pollen from the amaryllis, the smell of cold
and the black mold that lurks in dark corners
of the bathroom, like the last dying strands
of winter's DNA.

The town lies beyond my garden in a pocket of promising sunlight,
and beyond that tall pines touch the sky -
as if other incarnations of myself
(familiar and unknown) embedded in their eras
as I am now in mine, standing here before this open window
and breathing renewed life
into the slumbering Souls of bluebells.