In memory of Paul Berné
He loved this uncertain time of year,
when the willow fronds
turn pale with promise. It starts
with the knife edge of a winter wind
that tastes of spring,
the lengthening light.
The rains have come, and the moss
is emerald green.
Clumps of snowdrops
are sprouting in unexpected places.
Finding them is like coming across
an old friend after many years.
As if I were greeting Paul,
or glimpsing his ghost
in the delicate arch of each stem
weighted with its white flower.