A snowstorm steals this unsuspecting May,
But still – the purple crocus dares to bloom.
The robin, dashed with snow, still makes its way
To sing of seasons promised past this gloom.
Sheltered by storm walls, the garlands glow
Green-gold – a shimmer against a sheen of white.
The city shelters in, come rain or snow,
But nature must push through, it has to fight.
These flowers will not win, I know. And often
It’s their patient kin – who knew the storm would come –
Who take their places in the earth. Their coffin
A caveat not easily undone.
And when the warm winds rise, I hear their mark:
The cries of spring that echo in the dark.