Says crocuses
coaxed out of hiding
and killed in the snow.
—Franz Wright
It doesn't snow here
and they would live
forever it seems
burning slightly in the heat
if only I dare plant them
bulbs turned upward
in bloodmeal and soil
the perfect depth
to root insidious vines,
your Easter lilies.
It's so hard to dare more
than those white blossoms
each spring, your memory
so fresh and pure
that I fear them
the color of fingertips
ever so gently on skin,
a faint sigh, unnoticed
a stir of air in twilight
before the mourning sun.
