Spring I

Springtimes I dream of coming revolution:

of sealed things broken up with newborn pain,

of cotyledons sprung to life by rain,

of nestlings out of shells, one struggle won.

Early tulips April storms have wrenched

spread garish tongues or hoyden legs;

frail daffodils, hung on greenspike pegs,

bob like hapless angels heavy drenched.

Battered petals open as by rapes

and Bosnians do rituals to foes

while lilacs rust and every new thing grows

and blossom-sprays hide killers in their capes.