Snowdrops are up
and sickly shoots of daffodil.
For the first time in all my springs
no corresponding trill in my heart.
Most of what I see
is soot-pocked mounds of ice
and yellow-crusted sludge.
The sun’s rays
aren’t yet strong enough for warmth.
My friend’s tween daughter
has to walk past boys
chanting Your body, my choice
and this is far from the worst thing.
Let the croci come.
Let their soft purples invite tenderness.
Let light pool in the silk cups.
Let these daffodil stalks strengthen,
and the buds swell
till they must burst forth with gold.
Let me turn from the news and look.
Let me still find them beautiful.