Rik George writes

For Don Wells

The crocus will bloom where the snow is melting. 
The bud shows color under its green. 
If Don were near, I’d invite him over 
to greet the crocus when it comes, 
but he has gone adventuring. 
He left his house; the door’s ajar. 
The stove is cold, the table’s empty. 
A winter’s dust sits in Don’s chair. 
Autumn leaves sleep on his bed. 
He has other rooms to keep. 
He’s taking tea and cookies with the saints 
and telling jokes to the solemn angels.
Tomorrow he’ll fly kites with the Christ. 
The crocus must make do with me.


Crocus -- Carol Blackhurst