Sprung

The kindest and cruelest

Time has sprung,
Hope’s snowdrop’s
A thousand teardrops
Pure white
Beneath
The unhinged woods.

The crocus
So bright sings:
“It could be!”
While in Winter’s
Bite
We’ve almost accepted
An obscene long death,
And nothing after.

Before long,
Daffodils sprout,
Outrageous, disgraceful,
Their shout
Untainted by months of dirt
And ice,
Is innocence
And all that shines.

And so we sway
To and fro
Through life,
Chucked about by seasons’ false guides,
Yelling for the truth
Only to find the horror,
The delight
Of mystery,
And the power of
Our own tiny
Four-petalled flower.