A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

When crocus breaks through frozen stone, 
it does not ask if winter’s done. 
It simply blooms, and dares to hope 
the sun remembers how to shine.
And elderflower, in this shaded glen, 
guards the heart from what has been.
Its scent is a vow, its bloom a shield -- 
the kind of grace that does not yield.
So bloom again, and bloom aloud, 
though silence tried to wrap you round.
Joy returns -- soft-footed, sure -- 
yet I fill with fear it won't endure.