Showers overnight. Coffee on the desk,
Untasted, now cold.
The birds have been silent all morning.
But you still suppose
The world will bound toward you,
Opening its gardens and doors!
The pale, irregular blush of Winter Daphne
Spreads outside and upward.
You remember those times when passion takes
Hold, its thousand-mile scent
Going all through a body. Can you beat that.
You can see the flower starting up
In people,
First the stealth, then the dartingness,
All the while focused
On some complex task of its own