On a sunny Saturday
toward the end of March
the Widow Wyile greets
the first yellow crocuses
sprung up amid the pale purples
emerging from the receding
recent downy quilt of snow
creating flotillas of colour
above the damp brown earth
shoots of greens, breeze bouncing bells
of snowdrops, cones of crocuses
that open into finely veined chalices
and there by the house wall
a spot of darker blue
then lo on the other
side of the stoop
a scilla in full bloom
minor minute marvels
or momentous miracles
these first blooms are welcome
harbingers of nature’s course
signs of more to come
the delicate joy of noticing
fills her soul
with the exquisite existential
sponge cake of satisfaction