Think: does crocus put the brakes on crocus?
Brave first flower.
Pale cup reaching, opening, gold heart first into the light.
Is crocus always questioning, ordering:
Not like that. Like this.
White I think: Improve or die unloved.
Always angry mending
Until crocus has no idea of how or why or which way now.
This must be our Fall From Grace
Hard enough pushing through blank earth
Black with ice
Eyeless indefinable nosing towards something: light perhaps.
Hard enough without that voice:
what did I tell you?-see?-who can love you?
Yet not hard at all
When there’s no other choice and only one direction.