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Crocuses — by Ezra Cohen
I put a fistful in a stem of water
Near the winter squash. Now the spring gods might notice
This supple altar. Gone, they will say,
Are the sly entrapments of winter,
The body held
Cold and mute.
They unfasten in the heat.
They unfold their blossoms
Like a violet map to reveal
A gleaming, magnetic center.
Lost, it seems, is the wild spring,
Boarded in glass, when beneath
The branches of a willow
Others burn, jewel-like,
In deeper shade.
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