on the window ledge, the daffodils open in their mason jar of water
a dried bud keeps the smallest incomplete
its uneven yellow face turns to me, away from the sunlight.
do I love because I know one day I will leave?
in the garden
the crocus have begun to wilt,
except for the patch that hid themselves beneath the large stone.
in their solitude, they do not know the time to fade.