“I never did like Narcissus,” he says,
though I hadn’t asked for his opinion.

“Narcissus? Why not?” I ask.

“It is such a presumptuous flower,
So simple – banal really –
yet it pops up first thing in the spring
as though the world has been awaiting it
all winter.”

“All winter? Perhaps so,” I say.
“It is so beautiful and colorful
and a refreshing change from the ugly winter snow.”

“You know what I think?” he asks.
I don’t know, and I don’t ask.
He tells me anyway.

“I think these narcissus flowers bloom early
just so they can admire their reflections in the melting snow.”

“The melting snow,” I say. “I don’t care. I love them.”
I reach down to pick one of the flowers,
but it won’t come loose of the plant.
I pull harder. It still refuses to budge.

“See that?” he says.
“Narcissus won’t even let go of a bloom.
He wants to keep all the beauty for himself.”

“For himself…” I muse.
I begin to feel faint.
I feel as though I am disappearing.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

“Going somewhere. Yes… somewhere… somewhere…”

“Say, I didn’t catch your name,” he calls after me.

“Name? Echo. Echo. Echo.”

“Nice talking with you, Echo.
My name is Nemesis.”

Nemesis. Nemesis. Nemesis.

NaPoWriMo challenge, Day 21: Write a poem that plays with the myth of Narcissus in some way.