coneflowers

Pink coneflowers
will always remind me
of the little curved sidewalk
that led to the front door of our old house.
I remember how they trembled there
with the giant, round bodies of bumblebees
hovering all around,
their faces smooth and black
as a new moon.

The coneflowers,
growing tall and bright and deliberate,
were landing pads inviting pollination-
urchins plucked from the sea,
then promptly taught ballet and put in costume.
I was always afraid to walk past them-
would linger at a distance,
staring at the black and yellow guests
before a mad dash
into the laundry room.

I liked the flowers themselves,
and still think of them with fondness-
wish to stand again
on that little sidewalk.
If I went back, I would still run-
not for fear, but for longing
to look again on each room,
like we ran through the hall
the day we first moved in.
It was a very big house, and I got lost,
swallowed by the newness-
refusing to swallow anything new myself
and succumb to acceptance.

In spite of myself,
I grew up there-
every day rapidly passing
the pink coneflowers
on my way down the hill to the school bus.
Plucked from the sea,
I taught myself to breathe,
learned to dance before an audience
and let outsiders in.
Even those fearsome fuzzy bees,
I now remember
like old friends.