When the world is puddle-wonderful

Calendrically, if not meteorologically, it’s spring. The air is too brisk for blooms of any kind, but cuddle up with a potted ficus and write about something green. Enjoy this slice of springtime poetry:

 

 

First Crocus

by Christine Klocek-Lim

 

 

This morning, flowers cracked open

the earth’s brown shell. Spring

leaves spilled everywhere

through winter’s stern hand

could come down again at any moment

to break the delicate yolk

of a new bloom.

 

 

The crocus don’t see this as they chatter

beneath a cheerful petal of spring sky.

They ignore the air’s brisk arm

as they peer at their fresh stems, step

on the leftover fragments

of old leaves.

 

When the night wind twists them to pieces,

they will die like this: laughing,

tossing their brilliant heads

in the bitter air.

 

 

 

 

 

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