I heard the crocus laughing

First Crocus

This morning, flowers cracked open

the earth’s brown shell. Spring

leaves spilled everywhere

though winter’s stern hand

could come down again at any moment

to break the delicate yolk

of a new bloom.

The crocus don’t see this as they chatter

beneath a cheerful petal of spring sky.

They ignore the air’s brisk arm

as they peer at their fresh stems, step

on the leftover fragments

of old leaves.

When the night wind twists them to pieces,

they will die like this: laughing,

tossing their brilliant heads

in the bitter air.

~Christine Klocek-Lim~