For ConstanceWhite fields of snow
At your side a winter plant
arcs and relaxes. Each segment
slips like a small green boat
into the air. Beyond the
page
there is a name for this plant
whose budded tips
burst in scarlet
flowers. You hear
the bright fanfare of spring.
I know the
name. It is not true.
In the presence of exuberant red
the name
dissolves, like yours
in the immense beauty of you.