You will not see a flake of snow stand tall
upon a pedestal, proclaiming to
have grown the crocus, though it’s clear to all
when winter’s passed the marriage of the two.
Fire does not boast to ash the ravages
it laid across the land, nor medals pin
to lightning bolts for active services.
What’s burnt lies cold for new fires to begin.
The moribund of all is elsewhere born
with fingers, fins or manacles. No count
to keep, no need for sheepish glances torn;
desire will dispense her full amount.
The grapes we stomped have nearly turned to wine;
the stones we cast have laid a path sublime.
© Elaine Stirling, 2014
While I would have loved to photograph the crocuses from my garden, they’d have needed stems eight inches long to reach above the snow. The beautiful blooms featured here come from http://www.sodahead.com.