Turned at last, the glassy days lie quiet
Surrended whites have been all sucked away.
Panting winter now paces like a cat
Afraid to sleep, sniffing conspiracy.
Hears the sound of pimpernels rearming.
Below, betonies waiting for the push
Unfurling bleeding petals and warring
Jessamine outyellowing the spicebush.
Winter’s spy the dodder vine can’t escape.
Gilia, tall meadow rue confer with
Sweet everlasting, milkweed, columbine.
Turned at last, the grey world will be gentianed.
Had we been half as worthy as the flowers
This precious fate could well have become ours.
by Hugh Marchand