Here, too, David, the daffodils finally bloomed,
but those crocuses were only two, flashing
purple through the snow that fell, and fell,
and covered them–and then we waited for
the melt, and ice, and melt again as winter
reclaimed the land from every tentative stroke
of green and froze all our hopes, pebbled
our walkways with treachery–Wisconsin
spring offers a crash course in vigilance
for every growing thing: be ready for
what comes, carry a walking stick and seize
the sunny day whenever it comes.