The chill of an early
January morning
wrapped in frost and
layers of ice remind
her of the jagged edges of
unbearable loss as the
tears of angels roll down
her cheeks.
She realizes the darkness has
not eclipsed the promise, as
she looks out the kitchen window,
views the magenta hellebore
blooming its own defiant dance
against the cold and ice.  More
mauve and white velvet blossoms
peek out of snow drifts graced
with sparkle under early morning
sun as if a child threw a handful of glitter.
The mythical knowledge these same
blooms saved the daughters of Argos
from madness with tea seeped in
petal and leaf gives her hope. 
If only she planted more, she
says to herself, to take away
the sweep of winter.
The lenten rose ripe
with forgiveness, lure of the 
bluebird as it perches on the
weathered grapevine wreath,
memory of the wild ponies
running along the Eastern shore.

She brushes some flecks of glitter
from her hand.