It’s National Wattle Day
Except it isn’t
That was yesterday
And how we should have paid homage
to those fragile clusters of golden halos
every pale gilt globe
of trifling eyelashes
guilt-tipped with sunny dust
settling down in drifts, a benediction
in throats, in ears, in eyes
crawling, prickling, raw
the Spring-called panicked itch
so we did not pay homage
suffering in silent sneezes
choosing to turn away
From when the land turns on us
revealing
no end of tricks up its sleeve.