False Spring

It comes too early this late 
winter, before the ice storms are over, 
too soon I take off 
my heavy clothes—toss them 
onto the patchy grass 
where the Shasta Daisy-Snow Lady
 carefully protects herself beneath 
  
the ground. Today it is too warm 
not to trust in the burst of the deep 
lilac crocus. I remember each 
floral organ of last 
spring—how predictably it came. 
The new tulips, Heart's Delights—
carmine, edged with pink— 
flooded my yard and pushed through 
  
my lover's gate. I brought him 
dozens in a large jar. Now, 
I look for him in my mirror—
my flushed face a bouquet to offer. 
After the freeze, the absence 
of blood—scarlet and rose—I am 
for this moment, again, filled with color.