The Crocus and the Martin
the purple crocus in their velvet coats
enfold each other tenderly as they
await the coming night, its icy notes;
spring turns its back on winter's wordplay
while my brush wordlessly conspires
to trace their downy deep desires
fingers trace the newborn baby's back; fires
that had lain dormant stir; the earth, primed for
your rebirth, makes ready loamy soil, requires
the earth stop its weary toil; the purple martin savior
is come home; sound loud the bright refrain!
that which was lost is found again.