(for Janice)

Nudging and thrusting to the light
Crocuses snuff the air. The sun 
Melts with his breath the frost of night  
Scrawled like a snail-track on the stone.

Primroses thread the hills, the starved 
Flanks of the soil; drenched valleys lie
Heavy as fieece—the sign I craved—
And still my tongued heart, rough and dry.