Issue 4, Winter 1953
Nudging and thrusting to the light
Crocuses snuff the air. The sun
Melts with his breath the frost of night
Scrawled like a snail-track on the stone.
Primroses thread the hills, the starved
Flanks of the soil; drenched valleys lie
Heavy as fieece—the sign I craved—
And still my tongued heart, rough and dry.