Are the daffodils blooming, Inge?

Have you read something new, in an old
Old letter, saved and read
A thousand times before?

Has the earth, once muddied, then tromped
And finally frozen into strange, accusing, shapes
Thawed, and turned to mud again?

Has the swallow returned, finally, overdue,
From her journey with her lover
To a strange and unknown land?

Are the daffodils blooming, Inge?
Winter comes with icy hands,
But we planted bulbs together
And I pray to see them bloom.