Kinds of Honey

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.