Living in the violence of spring-
living in a time
where shells are cracking
and shapes alter,
who can afford to risk
forgetting the danger,
forgetting the moment
the crocus bulb breaks ground,
never knowing whether
snow or sun or ice
await in warm or jagged welcome.
There is no safety in
this restless season.
Even the sheltering ground
rejects its own,
thrusting the life it held
into the untrustworthy
and insufficient care
of air and weather.
There are no choices here-
no careful path or
reasoned way,
no holding in reserve for
some more settled,
more propitious time,
but only the unconsidered
faith of the crocus
whose saffron petals echo
or demand the sun.
-Lynn Ungar
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