stark crocus tips poke
like licked fingers
raised, in their near-
comic seriousness,
to test the direction
of the wind
and feel around
(a little dubious)
for what sincerity
may exist in this
latest thaw.
Despite last year's flowering
coming to nothing
and the daffodils' trumpets
falling silent—
then just falling—
they are eager as gamblers
for their damnable chance
not to bask
in the moral of the story
or the Easy Street Kingdom
of the power and the glory—
not for permanence, or
to put it all behind them—
but only
for balance—
only
to begin again.
