virgin wines

was never meant
that I would mourn
the clearing of a field
stalks to bend
beneath the bounds of soil
that I would cry
remembering
Spring will come again
was not a promise made
and I to tell

tulips breathe so silently
beneath the frigid earth
mockingbirds await
an early thaw
and where were we
but seeking warmth
before the frost could fade
crosses and white sandals
into March
accursed the bonnet
wanting still for wool
and silver skates

lacey socks
were never much
for keeping us amused
hung the eggs
from ribbons in the trees
sat (but for a moment)
in patches left of snow
watching still
as Christmas fell away
and numbers rolled (to numbers)
anxious for the end
would come
(and soon enough)
a taste of home
cellars filled with virgin wines
winter may belong
to someone else
who never made
the Spring