For Constance
White fields of snow
fan out from the window
like consciousness. You sit reading.

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.