My Crocuses
Charles R. Strietelmeier (bio)

Bright rods of rain
Pummel and soften
Cold, closed clay;
Worms stir again
In earth’s dark coffin.
Fed on wreaths
Of rotting blossoms,
Sheltered in last autumn’s
Ruined leaves,
These thin green blades cut through
White, stubborn fingers
Of late snow.

Life’s cradle
Is the plentiful
Success of death.
Before bright beauty
Must come strength.



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