Call it a fluke.
A sudden storm in spring
has weighed green boughs down,
buried young shoots under.
A crust crushes
the growing germ.
Call it memory,
iridescent flashes
blown off laden branches,
a flush of sun
which limns the ashes.
Where there was a clump
of grass, emeralds
glitter in the slush.
For the instant it lasts
a flake glints on my lashes.