~MURIEL NELSON~

IN A FOG

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A winter willow broom
swept by the one-handed sea
grows mossy.  It tisk-tisks
and saves a bit of string
tangling twigs and lashing at empty stakes.
Two crows have at it—
something dreadful—
one wide-open mouth an inch from the other.

The plums dipped themselves in rose
a week or two ago
and that little one
that Aprium—
part apricot, part plum—
bares its first strange blossom.  What
tinkering's gone on.  Spring
is less sure of itself since one
yellow crocus went underground
to come up white.

© by Muriel Nelson