Reality in the house, - the flowers of Winter.

But out in the garden the buds swell softly and down the road the pussy willow tree at the big house braves winter's bitter farewell, - and inclines me to dream and entreat....

Shall I call the flowers?

Come littlest, come tenderest,
Come whispering over the small waters,
Reach me rose, sweet one, still moist in the loam,
Come, come out of the shade, the cool ways,
The long alleys of string and stem;
Bend down, small breathers, creepers and winders;
Lean from the tiers and benches,
Cyclamen dripping and lilies.
What fish-ways you have, littlest flowers,
Swaying over the walks in the watery air,
Drowning in soft light, petals pulsing.
Theodore Roethke