Metamorphasis

A green stalk reaches upward, skittishly
In the colorless, bitter night
How then, do I know its green?
I suppose I assume it,
Despite the fact that it, bathing in the silver
Off-white glow of the moon
Paints it a new color
And I didn't even think I would see it
For three too-short months buried under hopeless snow
But now it feels like the wrong time
The crocuses bloom as it rains
Rains a handful of tears a day down my ...