It is still too early for leaves
Even though daffodil shoots
Are already pressing green fingers
Through. Meanwhile, as a crow loots
An unnecessary bird feeder,
There’s a woman of four score
Years and more waiting, with her frame,
For transportation. The door
To the ward won’t open on home,
Or those leafless trees beyond
Her back hedge, and the crow will fly
From the daffodil grasped ground.
Dave Alton
