From ferns that drop their tears
I can’t imagine blossom or even green.
The wind is coming from a great distance,
the branches creak outside the bedroom windows
—I know tonight will stretch itself out along the hours until morning.
Spring will come as it has before, but now
February is here, my own month of births and deaths.
The enigmatic Aquarian moon shines dully
through the snow beginning to fall and melt against the window.
If I am still, if I am patient, that water will turn to ice:
ferns and paisley leaves etched in silver—as fragile,
I wonder, as beautiful, as any green thing?
(title from W. B. Yeats — The Stolen Child)