For Rosie at Easter

Daffodils bow their tissue paper thin
heads low
under the weight of a late blowing storm,
my fragile, lovely girls;

and the tulips' red lips close--
no kiss for winter,
winter's cold,
winter's last wet snow,
'no' say my sturdy, chaste bells;

while in the Sunday church flirt the little old ladies
in warm, fuzzy wools
in crepe paper blouses and defiant skirts—
incorrigibly full of color,
full of smiles for the younger.

You wouldn't think it, but it is Spring,
the green grass that much brighter in contrast to the heavy, white world.