There is no magical death that ends the winter.
Flowers bloom, buds emerge
Only to be slain by sudden snow, persistent frost.
Winds that reach down and strangle the green
(Shake loose the darling buds)
Are as common as the uneasy calm of rain.
It takes no special genius, no seer
To unfurl that first green flag.
In the end, it is the queer courage
Of things that persist and persist
That rises, defiant, above the dead leaves of the year before.
In spring, I am always reminded that strength is not always obvious, that the sprouting of dandelions can break cement.