First Crocus

My back to the living room window, soaking up warmth a few days before

the equinox, I hear the shutters

rattle with gusts from a hard winter.

So much knocking against what we thought

were safe moorings. We didn't just pass

through those nights of misunderstanding:

we boarded, cursed, then swashed the decks down.

Twisting from shadows to watch patched snow,

I look down. Oh yes, the first crocus,

a little yellow one, has opened.

Something within turns us toward the light.