Snowdrops

Dad drives us to the edge of the woods to see the snowdrops.
He’s got a martini between his legs, gripped
with one hand like a saddle horn
and garnished with an olive.
We get out of the car, and he climbs the small slope.
He uses his hand to clear away brown leaves.
A little colony is exposed like a secret convent,
white heads bowed in prayer.
“There they are,” he says softly.

Dad was happiest in early spring,
when the lake thawed and the fish stirred.
When bluegills rose to snowflakes.
When the whole world got hungry.