Throat of the Blossom
Before the swelling buds,
the thrusting leaves of crocus,
there is the fruitless
winter, empty sheets
of snow upon snow.
What wants to come through,
will. Here
is a woman
putting on a dress
for no lover
but the first heats
of spring.
Who knows
what happens next —
the fallow field touched
by wind, the throat
of the blossom brushed
by the pollen heavy bee.
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