by Pia Taavila

Let me wait as the crocus waits,
folded, petal upon petal,
the wrapped core still alive,
still pulsing, yet content to count,
the snow’s mantle oddly soothing
above the bulb’s curled destiny.

Then, when the sun trains its gaze
upon the earth’s horizon,
when nestlings rustle,
will I send up a shoot,
a spire of fiery purple
to glisten in spring rain.