Long hours of the storm
by Emma Crobaugh
entangled fragments of yellow tulips
and all our yesterdays --
the dark sweet honey of the locust pod
dripping above our joys.
Gull wings dip through snow flakes
and cedars bend, as all men must.
Winter ivy webs the stones
in relentless clasp,
as time slows -- measured by mercury
in the ice-white world.
Wind in our faces, we scale
the cliff each dawn --
questing the deep blueness
of sapphire skies.
Mists of shadows flow with water
around green mossed stones --
the furious pulse beats
against the heart's wild pain
brining back April's yellow tulips.