Miss Betty was affectionately knitted a cap
by another lady of the parish, for that day
her hair falls out—one of the side effects—
and white-haired ladies shake their heads.

So morbid, over-solicitude toward an hour
no one knows, even Jesus; meanwhile, see
what is popping up by the concrete walk,
at this change of season: intrepid crocuses.

Really, you’d suppose we had seen enough
springs follow winters, not to be skeptical
about it happening once again; not to quit
referring to Miss Betty in the present tense.

Purple with yellow slashes, white with red;
quick, not dead. Any eulogies on our part
are premature, says the weight of evidence.
After therapy and slush, the chalice brims.

Miss Betty’s car door closes, while the sun
returns to us. She notices these crocuses,
reminder of hopes she was taught to have:
for summer, and the Jordan still to cross.

Back to Contents