To A Friend
In mid-April, three days of snow
(barely enough to call)
mingle with the white pear blossoms,
fall among the forsythia, the dandelions
and daffodils. No one told us, when we were young,
that strength and stubbornness
falter; or, when we were children,
that the clear world, the sharp self,
would get muddy and dull.
Folded into this note, a few splashes
of spring’s yellow. I’d send snow if I could,
but you have your own.
I’d had (versions of) the first sentence of this poem in mind for a couple of days, and made half a dozen false starts.