Narcissus' Lament 

Even now, she withholds her pleasure. 
My spiteful queen, capricious; 
I serve at her whim, shiver 

under the sharp lash of rain. Worse, 
I dread her favor; a glimpse 
of her abundance, teeming below 

the threshold of my senses. Crawling 
on my skin--the relentless pull 
to push and thrive, to thrust 

through the crust of earth 
that imprisons all of us, seed, shoot, 
limb. Dormancy is the little death 

we slough off in the spring. The light 
that wakes us, makes us all delirious 
until I ache to have her ravish me again.