The lawn has turned to moss, daffodils
bow yellow crowned heads.
My mother cuts a forsythia branch and
the buds open in warm water.
Last year, on Valentine’s Day,
I uncovered the first primroses,
showed you the tight furl of their purple
petals. Look at what is to come.
This year, even the cherry trees
have attired themselves early in pale
pink garments. Tomorrow I might
wake to the smell of lilacs or cold rain.
All the patterns I have come to learn
surprise me eventually.
Yesterday I thought of leaving you,
today I could not wake without you.
This time last year we had a foot of snow,
this year we have none.
My heart surrenders any planned course,
from now on I will either be late or early.