Last week, warm, the West Wind came
And they sensed the time to wake,
To wake from their resistant sleep.
Blossoming out, and into color, they grew
As I watched them on my way
Each morning to face
Each chronic day.
Last night, the air turned to frost.
Mere hours they bloomed, dying in the afternoon, then falling.
This small beauty, whose joy I came to know,
Savaged and killed by an unworthy frost.