Sisters of Snow

In cold spells

they collapse to the ground

only to resurrect themselves

once the temperature rises.

During conflict they were

used to de-ice tanks

but eat them and die.

It is the snow which owes

its colour to the snowdrop,

he says, when we tiptoe

past a thousand or more

dingle-dangling whitely

like 16th century earrings.

Pilfered indoors to look

pretty, he says, a fistful

of these will sour the milk

and eggs; at worst, they are

an omen of departure.

He kneels, then, to sever

the droopiest one

at her ankles, gifts her to me,

and when I breathe in

all that almond and honey

I hear a bevy

of witches choking.

She is so crystalline,

blue to the touch.