Although the snow still lingers
Heaped on the ivy's blunt webbed fingers
And painting tree-trunks on one ide,
Here in the sunlit ride
The fresh unchristened things appear,
Leaf, spathe and stem,
With crumbs of earth clinging ot them
To show the way they came
But no flower yet to tell their name,
And one green spear
Stabbing a dead leaf from below
Kills winter at a blow.
-Andrew Young (from The Century's Poetry 5: Bridges to the Present Day; compiled by Denys Kilham Roberts)
Crocuses in my yard.