Trillium

I wrote this poem several Aprils ago in New England . .  tonight, on the Equinox, on the other side of the continent, it speaks to me of the liminal space at the edge of spring:

TRILLIUM

Deep crimson blossoms
recall blood
and the taste of iron,

spray of stars
in the center
guide you in

to the carress
of petals

that draw you
down to
darkness.

Blooming
in the moments
before spring
has decided
whether
to remain,

Our Lady of the Forest
draws no distinction
between birth
and death.

Whichever passage
you choose
she will hold you
through the night

then deliver you
to the April morning,

stillborn
or drawing
your first breath.