Winter Spring Winter

They announced themselves as signs of Spring,

with pointed blades, not rounded jonquil leaves  —

a show of beauty to distract from winter.

We welcomed any respite this could bring

from sorrow, as the earth beneath us heaves

and floes of ice upon the river splinter.

Such signs of hope that I might take for granted,

revealed in them a deeply secret code

of life returning from the underworld.

But nature spurned the daffodils I planted

to imitate a fabled yellow road  —

a path around my house that bent and curled.

Then frost crept back and left these flowers slack,

so like our hearts amidst ongoing losses,

we see like ghosts behind some tempered glass  —

beyond our touch  —  we prayed would soon come back.

Is this betrayal from the frost that tosses

useless stems or beauty born to pass?