To the crocus

1

land of sand-capped snow

melting misty in mid-morning glow

the rising

sad galloping dactyls all

bombast and bluster and old men of winter

riding into the first faint guns of summer

2

all your beauty is buried

in bare earth

there is no beauty, surely, like

hoped-for things coming

3

surely the crocus will

come boldly lo

first blade of spring's spear shows

white truce of bloom upon it