They are still tight,
the buds on the chives.
They are wise not to open.
After a brief spring
it is winter again.
Days of white, nights of white,
thick snow and heavy sky.
Last week, when the birds
were singing, I opened.
I didn’t think of it then
as a vulnerable thing to do.
It seemed so dependable,
the sunshine of you.
I should have taken a hint
from the iris still folded
deep in their green envelopes.
Oh damn this lilac heart,
how it rushes to bloom.
The forecast is for winter all spring.
