The Goddess of Flowers is grinding her teeth.

Softly luminous,
tethered to a million fetal pieces of spring
She is clenching her fists.

Birth pains ~ maybe.
And a hatred of the bare, twisted branches
she is trying not to have.

Meanwhile, daffodils defy the now of winter
the wistaria stretches out its ochre grape bunches
before bothering with the leaves.

Her grinding is the turning of shoots in the hard ground.
Everything twists with her into the world
and no one knows
her secret hoping
for Winter.