Perhaps Dorothy Wordsworth

Did not mince words, penning

the factual backdrop of poems 

by long-legged William, "The first

mild day of March," middling

near peat moss where something 

was about to grow in rows, 

some roses blanched to match 

the overhang of places to lay their heads.

The creamed mauve hint of blooms

to come, diurnal pivot points

measured leisure and loss

pilfered from the dross often

untended like crops.

The lake air at last would wash off

from pastures (im)permanent with fog 

that jogs the memory of stone's warm

protective light to protect them 

through the night.