Spring thaw peels loose
the leaves snow caught
last fall before they
had really settled down:

now, windy Sunday, they
stir over dry lawn
and remnant windrows of
ice, as if looking

for the place they’d meant
to go: but it’s not now
as it was then
settling-down time, and

everywhere the leaves go
greens are
breaking out
amid the funeral arrangements

and the eyes of jonquils
hold on to their morning
tears and demure snowdrops
try not to look so bright.
~~ 'Ghosts' by A.R. Ammons from 'Century of Poetry in The New Yorker', ed. Kevin Young

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