Crocus

I know I need to cut back on posting published poems without permission. I tell myself the poets would rather someone read their work than worry about rights. In most cases, they’ve already given up their rights, so it’s the publishers I’ll have to answer to. All the same, I throw caution to the wind (with this sidenote: the poet represented below retains her rights).

The crocuses and snowdrops are breaking through and opening up. It is a wonder how much delight I feel when I see their happy yellow heads. And with the snow still in sight! I want to tell them, wait, wait. You will live longer if you wait. What terrible advice. Live better, not longer, they sensibly return.

crocus

First Crocus
by Christine Klocek-Lim

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

crocus 2

 

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