This time of year, the pine trees do the Great Rite
so exuberantly that the streets are paved with gold
and my nose runs until I feel utterly zero desire
for anything besides a tissue, and I remember…

When I learned that DST means
I never have to wait for the bus
in complete darkness
and that regardless of the hour
dusk means driving carefully
when the Horned One is in his season.

This is the place where I
grudgingly
picked up pine cones and
gleefully
wore azaleas and dogwood in my hair
on Easter,

Where I learned how pine trees age
and new ones volunteer,
how pine cones open and close
with heat and rain
and why long-leaf pines
are dangerous in ice.

But it is mornings I remember most of all
waiting for the bus
outside with Talking Self so briefly still
in my first meditations.

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