Crocus,

When will your tender leaves pierce the snow,

Petals tight as arrowheads?

I remember you white against rocks,

I remember you standing bravely against snow,

Not as tall as the droop of a Snowdrop,

But more profuse, more stunning;

You came in purple and white and pink.

Buried, you’re probably starting to tremble,

With the excitement of our first warm days,

Brief breaks of winter’s harsh winds,

Winds, which can’t break you

(And maybe me either?)

You army of self-determined survival,

You harbinger of rebirth and resurrection,

I know you’re starting to wake, I have faith,

And I tremble, too, with anticipation.

My hope: What’s dead in me will rise with you,

An army of crocus leading the way.