February: Thinking of Flowers

 Now wind torments the field,
turning the white surface back
on itself, back and back on itself,
like an animal licking a wound.


Nothing but white--the air, the light;
only one brown milkweed pod
bobbing in the gully, smallest
brown boat on the immense tide.


A single green sprouting thing
would restore me.
 .
 .
 .


Then think of the tall delphinium,
swaying, or the bee when it comes
to the tongue of the burgundy lily.

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