“Says crocuses
        coaxed out of hiding
        and killed in the snow”
              from: To John Wieners:
              Elegy & Response
              by: Franz Wright

It doesn’t snow here
and crocuses would live
forever is seems
burning slightly in the heat
if only I dare plant them

bulbs turned upward
in bloodmeal and soil
the perfect depth
to root like insidious vines
and your Easter lilies.

It’s so hard to dare more
than those white blossoms
each spring, your memory
so fresh and pure
that I fear crocuses

the color of fingertips
ever so gently on skin,
a faint sigh, unnoticed
a stir of air in twilight
before the mourning sun.