pink mouths clamber
up the stalk, an ancient grief
etched on tongues -- ai ai ai --
by a god's fanciful finger.

a gift the color of wan dawn
on February's fainting couch.
petals pass through finger pads
telling losses like beads,
an abacus, a mala of griefs
on frozen soil.

but not alone in its
disconnected earth, its sheath
of green paper: forsythia
branches mouthing and falling
in a scatter of gold, as sentries

and the bullish heads of
crocus, with saffron serpent
tongues darting from their jaws.
a hothouse spring hovers
by the pane, a temple incense.

beyond, the snowfield:
the white weight stamping down
the bulbs, the wanting green
in waiting while an old
gold ribbon flutters

on a stripped lilac. and in
the world edged and glittered:
small footprints pattern the white
spelling the raw fact
of hunger.