May Snow

Call it Indian winter.
A sudden storm in spring
has weighed the 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.

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