Remains of autumn leaves, a brownish gray
Scattered about the lawn now give their way
To sprouts of green that from the snow crushed
grass
Begin to show. And then small purple mass
Sprouting from green and gray you peep above
The brindled mass of composted must’ves
To promise me more than that of regrets,
Away with winter’s death, no more of debt.
Your passion of blood mixed with endless blue
Now transcends how I comprehend the new.
Just little purple crocus at lawn’s edge
Remind me I’ve no need to bets to hedge.
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