I see spring arrive with a pale ghost behind her—
the tulips and flax flowers didn’t survive the last ax
of winter that came in March. Off with their heads,
into the compost with brown leaves from fall,
eggshells from today; wither, decay, and maybe
next season. The year he died, my father
didn’t make it to spring, he was gone before
crocus came up through the snow. I saw him
this morning, his eyes and smile peered back at me
