St Christophers

I cry and it’s a man’s noise.
It’s getting light. It must be spring. The crocuses are up!
This is the first year I’ve noticed.

I am beautiful and could have ruined you—I chose not to;
but I really really could have.
The weather is bearable. I truly

could have destroyed the planet, not seen
the crocuses or cried like this. It goes so fast. Minutes ago
I was twenty-one—perhaps twelve: “They come in four

different colours?!” O go away
and come back when you’ve learnt your lesson: “They come in four
different colours and I hope to see them

in a variety of seasons and meadows. I will also
have you know that Homer
compared them to sunrises, and the crusaders

introduced them to…” Though
maybe not that learned.
I do like flowers now though, a touch

of noise and light. These seasons are
entertaining… And

and and and and! I saw the smallest bulb—a
baby—grow in a frozen field

in winter, once; and it was so
unbearable that I could have eaten it

at times—so
impossible

it was! Only
I cradled it

and waited, as it kicked
and screamed gritting all

my teeth: it rose.