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.