Into the greening
of early April, and this morning's
hardness carries silence deep.
No calligraphy of birdsong against blue,
no new sweetness in the air -
only this metallic stillness
where white breath plumes before us
like a warning, and we walk past the blackness
of drooped tomato seedlings, past raspberry canes
and hardy rhubarb, delicate buds
of fruit trees coated with frost.
But like small ripe fruits
among the garden rock, a second crop
of purple crocus stands intrepid
for all endangered blossoms.