This is the one I wanted to post: with permission of the author...
Desperate with darkness, forsythia flames out.
Madness, this: frail leaves of light, whipped wild with wind,
thrust themselves into unwilling skies,
force themselves on days that do not want to give up winter.
Only the need to be known cuts deeper,
the hunger not to be invisible.
Love is like that sometimes, and living always.
M. A. Kurtz