Narcissus
by Lynn Copeland Born, to the brown smell of rotting things,
Earth and water, the wet
Scent of bulbs, roots white and fine,
Blindly groping the soil,
Towards the river where it bends
And the surface runs glassy.There, the aphid shoots spiral up,
And half hidden among them
Pods twitch fitfully, spit cases and drip
Tiny white heads that peer toward water,
Spreading petals to the wind,
Watching everything in wonder,
In love.