Somebody noticed this quaking purplish spray
hung incongruous on late-winter's bough,
and tied a festive bow of multicolored yarns
to cheer the anomalous blossoms,
appearing ridiculous, as all first things,
and fragile, not to mention insanely hopeful—
puppets flailing on the still-chill gusts
they were not made for. Or like the earth itself
afloat the sea of night, hung pendulous
with life—which also came too soon,
and sways on slender stalk,
and is the improbable blossom of matter,
and may survive, or not, it is too soon to say.
To which some grinning God has tied
the breath of his own breath.
Richard Schiffman is a poet and writer who splits his time between New York City and New Mexico.