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At 48

At 48

Painting of a bouquest of dahlias, tiger lilies, and nasturtiums

And now
I become myself;
a hardened
bulb of dahlia
buried under
winter’s compacted earth.

Swelling with sun,
I break apart into tentacles
seeking the living air.

Bare and hot,
I raise my petaled head
and bow to the wind,
my only master.