The greys and browns are all around,
but lightning stars of yellow strike
to break monotony of rime
that seals the prevalence of death.
How dare these petals risk the sharps,
some flimsy tissue crepe in sun;
what permit issued, warmer time,
appearance counter winter prime?
At least the lauded snowdrop bells -
supposed as signs of season’s turn -
present a thick waxed hardened shell,
break crystals blanket, ready dressed.
Yet here against the honeyed blocks
these sparkles brighter than the stone;
this Roman candle shower, stark
amidst the loom of bitter pall.
A magic carpet, hanging wall,
the Persians thought a gift from God;
but where the flaw, one thread bare missed
as blossom tides us to the spring?
This contradiction to the norm
is what declares the globe a place
where unexpected signs of grace
invade the drab, and real can change.