What lures the crocus from the earth?
The warmth of the day,
the melt of snow?
What forces the bloom, how
do they learn t to stand –
faint, squat – and how to wag
their yellow tongues?
There is no Marshall of Flowers
spitting mad missions to the
dark, dull winter;
so surely the secret is
within, somewhere,
beneath the snow,
under the dirt,
somewhere, all along

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