Seventeen

I actually wrote this the night I turned seventeen. I had thought I lost it. Poetry always finds its way back to you.

I am seventeen
and ripe for the plucking.
In the darkest, driest season
I am blossoming
In the winter, when the harvest is over,
I am alive with love.
When the rabbits flee to their holes
and the world curls up to sleep
I am awake and laughing.
I can fly farther than the starling
as it hurries to warmth
I can run faster than the deer
in the secret of the night.
I can tell you all you wish to know
for I am the wisest of creatures.
I am seventeen
clinging to this frozen branch, my home.
You may say I am the last of the summer
but I am the first sign of spring.