Crocuses in April broke
their muddy scab of ice,
three drops, three red drops,
swollen each as if to open
into a garnet cup, each
opening to be torn
by sleet that day.
The days grown long
grew short. Red
leaves, and everything
they fell among, fell, too.
A dark and an indifferent
cold came making themself
a place with room for us.
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