when even the crocuses are
fastidiously working;
the snowdrops, drop by drop,
keep making steady progress;
the proud arrowheads
of soon-to-be tulips, already piercing
the stiff barriers of their soil,
have hit their marks perfectly, or even
slightly ahead of schedule—almost as if
the rest of the planet's odd affectation
of doing its best to keep perfectly still
for the season's duration
were preferable to its ordinarily
violent rotation.
