Myosotis Sylvatica

I search our beds for

an ambitious primrose

or velvet hellebore,

the shoots of paper-whites.

I want to find those things

we planted together

in the death of autumn,

in the hope of spring.

Plants that will bring back

the feeling of your arm on mine,

our fingers touching 

as you passed me the fragile bulbs,

your dragon’s breath on my cheek

telling me how unwary gardeners

had poisoned themselves

thinking these were onions.

Under brown thorns

that once were roses

are tufts of green lobed leaves;

there will be plenty of forget-me-nots.