Hellebores, the Lenten Rose
Window cracked, sky a shadow,
Moon just out not dark enough to glow.
I'll shut the window soon,
The day surprising mild.
I see jonquils, pushing through and crocus, a few, confused in purple bloom.
My heavy Lenten roses bending pink, pale green and white,
More clustered this year than last, next year than this.
Their fingers spread beneath the soil.
"We know it isn't Spring," they say,
"But hope is ours to share like broadcast news.
Come, forsythia. Let's fling our spectrum wide."
The leaves are legion, ground still covered, deepening mid-winter damp.
The sky grows darker as I write.
That's always true at 79, which gratefully I am.
The sky grows darker as I write.
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