Winter Nemophila

Misplaced, a frail light appeared on his hair.

Spontaneous, this visual blessing, this favor,

So alien to this place, so lost and anxious

Though careless for familiarity;

It was secure -- in truth, no less than smug...

And that much due to its nature and self.

So soft to mortal touch, the light appeared,

More velvet-delicate than chocolate cake,

More soft to touch than bubbles lingering, 

Lazing on the surface of luscious cream.

A hand cannot reach out to such a thing,

Act as if it were an easy feat to stroke it

And lest it perish more quickly than fated,

I can only refrain my fingers and breaths,

Hold them sweetly, loosely against my chest,

Neither impact his halo too hard with 

Glance of guileless need (an adder's weapon,

And no friend to charitable regard). 

Yet will it break under such shallow stress

As detailed consideration affords?

A risk, a chance, I neglect to fear to take.

This, I think, this apparition of light --

Light on his hair, on his brow, by his nape--

Is early, I think; and for comparison,

Imagine a spring flower shuddering,

Struggling to straighten its infant spine,

Weeping in the apex of winter's flaunt,

Casting despair at a galing sky's gray

Wailing feebly to a pitiless cold,

Last dying crushed by circumstances alone.

Too early, too early-- or, perhaps, too late.

In corresponding spontaneity,

Why does a flower in winter's dark day

Bloom before spring, or long after last spring?

This halo, weary and maladjusted,

Apparition feigning it is not flustered,

Why now? is all I ask to be answered.