All the buds on thin branches have withered
with this last, harsh frost. The radio speaks
of snow coming. The end of March, and crocuses
and daffodils live only in overheated florist
shops. Today would have a clear cold beauty,
had it arrived two or three months past; instead
the people curse, complain, and shiver in too-thin
jackets. Ice coats my windowpane.
Your fingers touch me gently, and in me
there is spring.
March 22, 1996