Focus, they say, and Bof'us, someone laughs;
But crocus is what they mean, and inching through
A yard like iron, just before the daffs,
They make a spring. The spring remembers you
Under the cherry, blossoms in your hair
And dress too small to make a handkerchief.
It's you, and you are never ever there.
Some jocund flowers beggar all belief.
Let summer burn them down. Let the sweet grass
Give itself up to desiccate and dirt.
All memories decay, and cherries pass.
Bof'us, they say, and laugh until they hurt.
The ice is melting, all that broken glass
A spring in motion and the past inert.
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