pollen dripping from my fingers

and we are not the old versions of ourselves

in this first week of march

doves cooing and crocuses struggling

to find their way through frozen soil / they are new

blooming the way i am cracking

through my ribs to find who i was / am / meant

to be, the bee buzzes in my ears

honey, you are sweet and fierce like me

with stingers in my eyes and wings

in my lungs, i am not who i was / we

are not who we were that last year's march

when the daffodils sang early

against the winter's harsh frost.