This is the place of the wood anemone,
yet their time is not ready to go,
they are under the snow.
Perhaps a season of Spring,
patient in its deliberate temporal positioning,
our bright, airy delicate flower will bring.
Until then we creatures of impetuous
flavour of sight and sound, and even mind
may frolic
on top of the snow in our winter's playground,
to every season yet may we dream and grow
