Snowdrop melts into glass-crisp swirl.
Spring stutters
Under silver tresses
Of birch. Leant
Against the flaking bark,
Chilblain wrinkled,
Old one stoops
Arthritic with her
Dowager's hump,
Cradling the bridal bursting
In her lap,
Where the edge of thaw
Stains daylight
With its fluttering storms
Of crocus and inclemency.
She lifts her aged fingers
To the tent's sagged roof
To shed the snowfall
While she croons
Songs of weasel and of hare.
Earth's scald of inner friction
Too far beneath to warm
This refugee, this home-lost.
From temporary kitchens,
Soup pans
Nourish with blessings
Ladled into her bowl,
Whose simmering surface
Reflects the face of an angel.
In her arms, the youthful shoot
Still sheathed in silence,
Stirs and hears the lapwing
Curling and kiting
Through the wheeling wafers
Of persisting winter.
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