We sit in the conservatory painting flowers.
The petals layers of black and yellow,
bumble bee strikes of the clock.
I still don’t know when they will open me up,
what they intend to pluck from my insides,
where these unwanted roots are growing.

The daffodils in the garden
have decided to risk the frost,
to splash their sunshine between the trees.
Their heads nodding in the icy breeze
as if to say perhaps it is too soon
but at least we are here.

There is no such thing as certainty.
I have wasted so much time
trying to control the weather
when the skies are their own fortune tellers.

Spring is coming, that is all
the promise I need.