by Michael Escoubas

Despite the white blanket
insisting on its right
to linger in tight thickets
and on branches verging
on bursting forth their blooms
a small cohort of crocuses
hold hands and powers upward
through hard ground, knowing
their time has come, knowing
the hour is now,
if the hour shall be at all.
They say, as I should say,
Seize the day!
Seize the day!

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