From the still shivering earth where
the softening shadows of the urgent trees
don’t yet claim the light, snow drops
insist on their time in the sun. 

Age after age they rise, green winged

phoenix through the grey ash of autumns

apparent failure putting to shame our

reluctance to love; to risk again that surge

towards the heat of another’s being; to break

the chilled crust of unsuccessful loving.

 

Do snow drops remember the sun.

Do they quiver in anticipation of

that moment of breaking through;

that pushing aside the weight of the past

to bloom again in a new spring.